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IRb^mes  of  a 
IReb  Cross  /llban 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 

AUTHOR    OF 
'the    spell    of   the   YUKON,"    "tHE    BALLADS 

OF  A  cheechako,"  "Rhymes  of 
A  Rolling  Stone,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
BARSE  &  HOPKINS 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1916, 

by 

BARSE  &  HOPKINS 


Annex 


Zo  tbe  ^emoris  or 

MY  BROTHER, 
LIEUTExNANT  ALBERT  SERVICE 

CANADIAN  INFANTRY 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,   FRANCE 

August,  1916. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWOBD '.....  9 

The  Call ii 

The  Fool 13 

The  Volunteer 16 

The  Convalescent 19 

The  Man  from  Athabaska        ....  21 

The  Red  Retreat 27 

The  Haggis  of  Private  Mc  Phee    ...  32 

The  Lark 41 

The  Odyssey  of  'Erbert  'Iggins      ...  43 

The  Song  of  Winter  Weather       ...  50 

Tipperary  Days 52 

Fleurette 56 

Funk 61 

Our  Hero 63 

My  Mate 65 

Milking  Time 69 

Young  Fellow  My  Lad y;^ 

The  Song  of  the  Sandbags 76 

On  the  Wire 80 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Bill's   Grave 84 

Jean  Desprez 88 

Going  Home 96 

COCOTTE •      •      •  99 

My  Bay'nit 103 

Carry  On  ! 105 

Over  the  Parapet 108 

The  Ballad  of  Soulful  Sam   .      .     .     .113 

Only  a  Boche 119 

Pilgrims 124 

My  Prisoner 126 

Tri-Colour 130 

A  Pot  of  Tea 132 

The  Revelation 134 

Grand-Pere        138 

Son 140 

The  Black  Dudeen 143 

The  Little  Piou-Piou 147 

Bill  the  Bomber 150 

The  Whistle  of  Sandy  McGraw  .     .      .157 

The  Stretcher-Bearer 164 

Wounded 166 

Faith i73 

The  Coward 174 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Missis  Moriarty's  Boy 178 

My  Foe 181 

My  Job 186 

The  Song  of  the  Pacifist 189 

The  Twins        192 

The  Song  of  the  Soldier-Born       .      .      .  193 

Afternoon  Tea 197 

The  Mourners 204 

L'  Envoi 206 


FOREWORD 


FOREWORD 

I've  tinkered  at  my  bits  of  rhymes 

In  weary,  zcoefid,  waiting  times; 

In  doleful  hours  of  battle -din, 

Ere  yet  they  brought  the  zcounded  in; 

Through  vigils  of  the  fateful  night, 

In  lousy  barns  by  candle-light ; 

In  dug-outs,  sagging  and  aflood, 

On  stretchers  stiff  and  bleared  zvith  blood; 

By  ragged  grove,  by  ruined  road, 

By  hearths  accurst  where  Love  abode; 

By  broken  altars,  blackened  shrines 

I've  tinkered  at  my  bits  of  rhymes. 

I've  solaced  me  zvith  scraps  of  song 
The  desolated  zvays  along: 
Through  sickly  fields  all  shrapnel-sozvn, 
And  meadozi's  reaped  by  death  alone; 
By  blazing  cross  and  splintered  spire, 
By  headless  Virgin  in  the  mire; 
By  gardens  gashed  amid  their  bloom. 
By  gutted  grave,  by  shattered  tomb; 

[9] 


FOREWORD 


Beside  the  dying  and  the  dead 

Where  rocket  green  and  rocket  red. 

In  trembling  pools  of  poising  light, 

With  ftozvers  of  flame  festoon  the  night. 

Ah  me!  by  what  dark  ways  of  zvrong 

I've  cheered  my  heart  with  scraps  of  song. 

So  here's  my  sheaf  of  zvar-won  verse, 
And  some  is  bad,  and  some  is  worse. 
And  if  at  times  I  curse  a  bit, 
You  needn't  read  that  part  of  it; 
For  through  it  all  like  horror  runs 
The  red  resentment  of  the  guns. 
And  you  yourself  zvould  mutter  when 
You  took  the  things  that  once  were  men, 
And  sped  them  through  that  zone  of  hate 
To  zvhere  the  dripping  surgeons  zcait; 
And  wonder  too  if  in  God's  sight 
War  ever,  ever  can  be  right. 
Yet  may  it  not  be,  crime  and  war 
But  effort  misdirected  are? 
And  if  there's  good  in  zvar  and  crime 
There  may  be  in  my  bits  of  rhyme, 
My  songs  from  out  the  slaughter  mill: 
So  take  or  leave  them  as  you  will. 

[10] 


THE  CALL 


THE  CALL 

(France,  August  first,  191 4.) 

Far  and  near,  high  and  clear, 

Hark  to  the  call  of  War! 
Over  the  gorse  and  the  golden  dells, 
Ringing   and    swinging   of    clamorous   bells, 
Praying  and  saying  of  wild   farewells : 

War!     War!     War! 

High  and  low,  all  must  go : 

Hark  to  the  shout  of  War ! 
Leave  to  the  women  the  harvest  yield ; 
Gird  ye,  men,  for  the  sinister  field; 
A  sabre  instead  of  a  scythe  to  wield: 

War !     Red  War ! 

Rich  and   poor,   lord  and  boor, 

Hark  to  the  blast  of  War ! 
Tinker  and  tailor  and  millionaire. 
Actor  in  triumph  and  priest  in  prayer, 
Comrades  now  in  the  hell  out  there. 

Sweep  to  the  fire  of  War ! 

[II] 


THE  CALL 


Prince  and  page,  sot  and  sage, 

Hark  to  the  roar  of  War ! 
Poet,  professor  and  circus  clown, 
Chimney-sweeper  and  fop  o'  tlie  town, 
Into  the  pot  and  be  melted  down : 

Into  the  pot  of  War! 

Women  all,  hear  the  call. 

The  pitiless  call  of  War! 
Look  your  last  on  your  dearest  ones. 
Brothers  and  husbands,  fathers,  sons: 
Swift  they  go  to  the  ravenous  guns. 

The  gluttonous  guns  of  War. 

Everywhere  thrill  the  air 

The  maniac  bells  of  War. 
There  will  be  little  of  sleeping  to-night ; 
There  will  be  wailing  and  weeping  to-night ; 
Death's  red  sickle  is  reaping  to-night : 

War !     War !     War  I 


[12] 


THE  FOOL 


THE  FOOL 

''  But   it   isn't  playing  the   game,"   he   said, 

And  he  slammed  his  books  away ; 

"  The  Latin  and  Greek  I've  got  in  my  head 

Will  do  for  a  duller  day." 

"  Rubbish!  "  I  cried;  "  The  bugle's  call 

Isn't  for  lads  from  school." 

D'ye  think  he'd  Hsten?     Oh  not  at  all: 

So  I  called  him  a  fool,  a  fool. 

Now  there's  his  dog  by  his  empty  bed, 

And  the  flute  he  used  to  play. 

And   his    favourite   bat  .  .  .  but    Dick   he's 

dead. 
Somewhere  in  France,  they  say : 
Dick  with  his  rapture  of  song  and  sun, 
Dick  of  the  yellow  hair, 
Dicky  whose  life  had  but  begun. 
Carrion-cold  out  there. 

Look  at  his  prizes  all  in  a  row: 
Surely  a  hint  of  fame. 
[■3] 


THE  FOOL 


Now  he's  finished  with,  nothing  to  show : 

Doesn't  it  seem  a  shame? 

Look  from  the  window !     All  you  see 

Was  to  be  his  one  day : 

Forest  and  furrow,  lawn  and  lea, 

And  he  goes  and  chucks  it  away. 

Chucks  it  away  to  die  in  the  dark: 

Somebody  saw  him  fall, 

Part  of  him  mud,  part  of  him  blood, 

The  rest  of  him  —  not  at  all. 

And  yet  I'll  bet  he  was  never  afraid, 

And  he  went  as  the  best  of  'em  go; 

For  his  hand  was  clenched  on  his  broken 

blade. 
And  his  face  was  turned  to  the  foe. 

And  I  called  him  a  fool  .  .  .  Oh,  blind  was 

I! 
And  the  cup  of  my  grief's  abrim. 
Will  Glory  o'  England  ever  die 
So  long  as  we've  lads  like  him? 
So  long  as  we've  fond  and  fearless  fools, 
Who,  spurning  fortune  and  fame. 


[14] 


THE  FOOL 


Turn    out    with    the    rallying    cry    of    their 

schools, 
Just  bent  on  playing  the  game. 

A  fool !     Ah  no !     He  was  more  than  wise. 

His  was  the  proudest  part. 

He  died  with  the  glory  of  faith  in  his  eyes, 

And  the  glory  of  love  in  his  heart. 

And  though  there's  never  a  grave  to  tell, 

Nor  a  cross  to  mark  his  fall, 

Thank  God !  we  know  that  he  "  batted  well  " 

In  the  last  great  Game  of  all. 


[isl 


THE  VOLUNTEER 


THE  VOLUNTEER 

Sez  I :     My  Country  calls  ?     Well,  let  it  call. 

I  grins  perlitely  and  declines  wiv  thanks. 

Go,  let  'em  plaster  every  blighted  wall, 

'Ere's  one  they  don't  stampede  into  the  ranks. 

Them  politicians  with  their  greasy  ways ; 

Them  empire-grabbers  —  fight  for  'em  ?     No 
fear! 

I've  seen  this  mess  a-comin'  from  the  days 

Of  Algyserious  and  Aggydear : 
I've  felt  me  passion  rise  and  swell, 
But  .  .  .  wot  the  'ell.  Bill  ?     Wot  the  'ell  ? 

Sez  I:     My  Country?     Aline?     I  Hkes  their 

cheek. 
Ale  mud-bespattered  by  the  cars  they  drive. 
Wot  makes  my  measly  thirty  bob  a  week. 
And  sweats  red  blood  to  keep  meself  alive! 
Fight  for  the  riglit  to  slave  that  they  may 

spend. 
Them  in  their  mansions,  me  'ere  in  my  slum  ? 
No,  let  'em  fight  wot's  something  to  defend: 
[i6] 


THE  VOLUNTEER 


But  me,  I've  nothin', —  let  the  Kaiser  come. 
And  so  I  cusses  'ard  and  well, 
But  .  .  .  wot  the  'ell,  Bill?    Wot  the  'ell? 

Sez  I :  If  they  would  do  the  decent  thing, 
And  shield  the  missis  and  the  little  'uns, 
Why,   even  /  might  shout  "  God   save  the 

King," 
And  face  the  chances  of  them  'ungry  guns. 
But  we've  got  three,  another  on  the  way ; 
It's   that   wot   makes   me   snarl  and   set   me 

jor: 
The  wife  and  nippers,  wot  of  'em  I  say, 
If  I  gets  knocked  out  in  this  blasted  war? 

Gets  proper  busted  by  a  shell, 

But  .  .  .  wot  the  'ell,  Bill?     Wot  the  'ell? 


Ay,  wot  the  'ell's  the  use  of  all  this  talk? 
To-day  some  boys  in  blue  was  passin'  me, 
And  some  of  'em  they  'ad  no  legs  to  walk, 
And  some  of  'em  they  'ad  no  eyes  to  see. 
And  —  well,    I    couldn't    look    'em    in    the 

face; 
And  so  I'm  goin',  goin'  to  declare 

[17] 


THE  VOLUNTEER 


I'm  under  forty-one  and  take  me  place 
To  face  the  music  with  the  bunch  out  there. 

A  fool,  you  say !     Maybe  you're  right. 
I'll  'ave  no  peace  unless  I  fight. 
I've  ceased  to  think;  I  only  know 
I've  gotta  go,  Bill,  gotta  go. 


[i8] 


THE  CONVALESCENT 


THE  CONVALESCENT 

.  .  .  So   I   walked  among  the  willows  very 

quietly  all  night ; 
There  was  no  moon  at  all,  at  all ;  no  timid 

star  alight ; 
There  was  no  light  at  all,  at  all ;  I  wint  from 

tree  to  tree, 
And  I  called  him  as  his  mother  called,  but 

he  nivver  answered  me. 


Oh   I   called   him   all   the   night-time,    as    I 

walked  the  wood  alone ; 
And  I  listened  and  I  Hstened,  but  I  nivver 

heard  a  moan; 
Then  I  found  him  at  the  dawnin',  when  the 

sorry  sky  was  red : 
I  was  lookin'  for  the  livin',  but  I  only  found 

the  dead. 
Sure  I  knew  that  it  was  Shamus  by  the  silver 

cross  he  wore; 

[19] 


THE  CONVALESCENT 


But  the  bugles  they  were  calHn',  and  I  heard 

the  cannon  roar. 
Oh  I  had  no  time  to  tarry,  so  I  said  a  httle 

prayer, 
And  I  clasped  his  hands  together,  and  I  left 

him  lyin'  there. 

Now  the  birds  are  singin',  singin',  and  I'm 

home  in  Donegal, 
And  it's   Springtime,  and  I'm  thinkin'  that 

I  only  dreamed  it  all ; 
I  dreamed  about  that  evil  wood,  all  crowded 

with  its  dead, 
Where  I  knelt  beside  me  brother  when  the 

battle-dawn  was  red. 

Where  I  prayed  beside  me  brother  ere  I  wint 

to  fight  anew : 
Such  dreams  as  these  are  evil  dreams ;  I  can't 

believe  it's  true. 
Where  all  is  love  and  laughter,  sure  it's  hard 

to  think  of  loss.  .  .  . 
But  mother's  sayin'  nothin',  and  she  clasps  — 

a  silver  cross. 


[20] 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHA- 
BASKA 

Oh  the  wife  she  tried  to  tell  me  that  'twas 

nothing  but  the  thrumming 
Of  a  wood-pecker  a-rapping  on  the  hollow 

of  a  tree; 
And   she  thought  that  I   was   fooling  when 

I  said  it  was  the  drumming 
Of  the  mustering  of  legions,  and  'twas  calling 

unto  me; 
'Twas  calling  me  to  pull  my  freight  and  hop 

across  the  sea. 


And  a-mending  of  my  fish-nets  sure  I  started 
up  in  wonder, 

For  I  heard  a  savage  roaring  and  'twas  com- 
ing from  afar ; 

Oh  the  wife  she  tried  to  tell  me  that  'twas 
only  summer  thunder, 

[21] 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

And  she  laughed  a  bit  sarcastic  when  I  told 

her  it  was  War ; 
'Twas  the  chariots  of  battle  where  the  mighty 

armies  are. 


Then  down  the  lake  came  Half-breed  Tom 
with  russet  sail  a-flying, 

And  the  word  he  said  was  "  War ''  again, 
so  what  was  I  to  do? 

Oh  the  dogs  they  took  to  howling,  and  the 
missis  took  to  crying, 

As  I  flung  my  silver  foxes  in  the  little  birch 
canoe : 

Yes,  the  old  girl  stood  a-blubbing  till  an  is- 
land hid  the  view. 

Says    the     factor :     *'  Mike,    you're     crazy ! 

They  have  soldier  men  a-plenty. 
You're  as  grizzled  as  a  badger,  and  you're 

sixty  year  or  so." 
"  But  I  haven't  missed  a  scrap,"  says  I, ''  since 

I  was  one  and  twenty. 
And  shall  I  miss  the  biggest?     You  can  bet 

your  whiskers  —  no  !  " 

[221 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

So  I  sold  my  furs  and  started  .  .  .  and  that's 
eighteen  months  ago. 

For  I  joined  the  Foreign  Legion,  and  they 

put  me  for  a  starter 
In   the   trenches   of   the  Argonne   with   the 

Boche  a  step  away ; 
And  the  partner  on  my  right  hand  was  an 

apache  from  Montmartre ; 
On   my   left   there   was   a   millionaire   from 

Pittsburg,  U.  S.  A. 
(Poor  fellow  !     They  collected  him  in  bits  the 

other  day.) 

But  Pm  sprier  than  a  chipmunk,  save  a  touch 

of  the  lumbago ; 
And   they   calls   me   Old   ]\Iethoosalah,   and 

blagues  me  all  the  day. 
Pm  their  exhibition   sniper,  and  they  work 

me  like  a  Dago, 
And  laugh  to  see  me  plug  a  Boche  a  half  a 

mile  away. 
Oh  I  hold  the  highest  record  in  the  regiment, 

they  say. 

[23] 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

And  at  night  they  gather  round  me,  and  I 

tell  them  of  my  roaming 
In  the  Country  of  the  Crepuscule  beside  the 

Frozen  Sea; 
Where  the  musk-ox  runs  unchallenged,  and 

the  cariboo  goes  homing, 
And  they  sit  like  little  children,  just  as  quiet 

as  can  be : 
Men  of  every  crime  and  colour,  how  they 

barken  unto  me! 


And  I  tell  them  of  the  Furland,  of  the  tump- 
line  and  the  paddle, 

Of  secret  rivers  loitering,  that  no  one  will 
explore  ; 

And  I  tell  them  of  the  ranges,  of  the  pack- 
strap  and  the  saddle, 

And  they  fill  their  pipes  in  silence,  and  their 
eyes  beseech  for  more ; 

While  above  the  star-shells  fizzle  and  the 
high  explosives  roar. 


[24] 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

And  I  tell  of  lakes  fish-haunted,  where  the 

big  bull  moose  are  calling, 
And   forests   still   as   sepulchres   with   never 

trail  or  track; 
And  valleys  packed  with  purple  gloom,  and 

mountain  peaks  appalling, 
And  I  tell  them  of  my  cabin  on  the  shore  at 

Fond  du  Lac ; 
And  I  find  myself  a-thinking:     Sure  I  wish 

that  I  was  back. 


So  I  brag  of  bear  and  beaver  while  the  bat- 
teries are  roaring, 

And  the  fellows  on  the  firing  steps  are  blaz- 
ing at  the  foe ; 

And  I  yam  of  fur  and  feather  when  the 
marmites  are  a-soaring, 

And  they  listen  to  my  stories,  seven  poilus  in 
a  row, 

Seven  lean  and  lousy  poilus  with  their  cig- 
arettes aglow. 


[25] 


THE  MAN  FROM  ATHABASKA 

And  I  tell  them  when  it's  over  how  I'll  hike 

for  Athabaska; 
And  those  seven  greasy  poilns  they  are  crazy 

to  go  too. 
And  I'll  give  the  wife  the  "  pickle-tub  "  I 

promised,  and  I'll  ask  her 
The  price  of  mink  and  marten,  and  the  rim 

of  cariboo, 
And  ril  get  my  traps  in  order,  and  I'll  start 

to  work  anew. 


For  I've  had  my  fill  of  fighting,  and  I've  seen 

a  nation  scattered. 
And  an  army  swung  to  slaughter,  and  a  river 

red  with  gore, 
And  a  city  all  a-smoulder,  and  ...  as  if  it 

really  mattered. 
For  the   lake   is  yonder  dreaming,  and  my 

cabin's  on  the  shore; 
And  the  dogs  are  leaping  madly,  and  the  wife 

is  singing  gladly, 
And  I'll  rest  in  Athabaska,  and  I'll  leave  it 

nevermore. 


[26] 


THE  RED  RETREAT 


THE  RED  RETREAT 

Tramp,  tramp,  the  grim  road,  the  road  from 

Mons  to  Wipers 
(I've  'ammered  out  this  ditty  with  me  bruised 

and  bleedin'  feet)  ; 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  dim  road  —  we  didn't  'ave 

no  pipers, 
And  bellies  that  tvas  'oiler  was  the  drums  zve 

'ad  to  beat. 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  bad  road,  the  bits  o'  kid- 
dies cryin'  there. 
The  fell  birds  a-Uyin'  there,  the  'ouses  all 

aflame; 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  sad  road,  the  pals  I  left 

a-lyin'  there, 
Red  there,  and  dead  there.  .  .  .  Oh  blimy, 

it's  a  shame! 

A-singin*    "  'Oo's    Yer    Lady   Friend  ? "    we 

started  out  from  'Arver, 
A-singin'  till  our  f roats  was  dry  —  we  didn't 

care  a  'ang ; 

[27] 


THE  RED  RETREAT 


The  Frenchies  'ow  they  lined  the  way,  and 

slung  us  their  palaver, 
And  all  we  knowed  to  arnser  was  the  one 

word  *'  vang  "  ; 
They  gave  us  booze  and  caporal,  and  cheerfed 

for  us  like  crazy, 
And  all  the  pretty  gels  was  out  to  kiss  us-  as 

we  passed ; 
And  'ow  they  all  went  dotty  when  we  'owled 

the  Marcelaisey ! 
Oh,  Gawd !     Them  was  the  'appy  days,  the 

days  too  good  to  last. 

We  started  out  for  God  Knows  Where,  we 

started  out  a-roarin' ; 
We  'ollered:     "'Ere  We  Are  Again,"  and 

^struth!  but  we  was  dry. 
The  dust  was  gummin'  up  our  ears,  and  'ow 

the  sweat  was  pourin' ; 
The  road  was  long,  the  sun  was  like  a  brazier 

in  the  sky. 
We    wondered    where    the    'Uns    was  —  we 

wasn't  long  a-wonderin'. 
For  down  a  scrufif  of   'ill-side  they  rushes 

like  a  flood ; 

[28] 


THE  RED  RETREAT 


Then  oh!  'twas  music  'eavenly,  our  batteries 
a-thunderin', 

And  arms  and  legs  went  soarin'  in  the  foun- 
tain of  their  blood. 

For  on  they  came  like  bee-swarms,  a-hochin' 

and  a-singin' ; 
We  pumped  the  bullets  into  'em,  we  couldn't 

miss  a  shot. 
But  though  we  mowed  'em  down  like  grass, 

like  grass  was  they  a-springin'. 
And  all  our  'ands  was  blistered,  for  our  rifles 

was  so  'ot. 
We  roared  with  battle-fury,  and  we  lammed 

the  stuffin'  out  of  'em, 
And    then    we    fixed    our    bay'nts    and    we 

spitted  'em  like  meat. 
You   should  'ave   'eard   the  beggars  squeal : 

you  should  'ave  seen  the  rout  of  'em. 
And  'ow  we  cussed  and  wondered  when  the 

word  came  :     Retreat ! 

Retreat!     That  was  the  'ell  of   it.     It   fair 

upset  our  'abits, 
A-runnin'  from  them  blighters  over  'alf  the 

roads  of  France; 

[29] 


THE  RED  RETREAT 


A-scurryin'  before  'em  like  a  lot  of  blurry 

rabbits. 
And  knowin'  we  could  smash  'em  if  we  just 

'ad  'alf  a  chance. 
Retreat!     That  was  the  bitter  bit,  a-limpin' 

and  a-blunderin' ; 
All  day  and  night  a-hoofin'  it  and  sleepin'  on 

our  feet; 
A-fightin'  rear  guard  actions  for  a  bit  of  rest, 

and  wonderin' 
If  sugar  beets  or  mangels  was  the  'olesomest 

to  eat. 


Ho  yus,  there  isn't  many  left  that  started 

out  so  cheerily; 
There  was  no  bands  a-playin'  and  we  'ad  no 

autmobeels. 
Our  tummies  they  was  'oiler,  and  our  'eads 

was  'angin'  wearily. 
And  if  we  stopped  to  light  a  fag  the  'Uns 

was  on  our  'eels. 
That  rotten  road !     I  can't  forget  the  kids 

and  mothers  flyin'  there, 

[30] 


THE  RED  RETREAT 


The  bits   of   barns   a-blazin'   and  the   'orrid 

sights  I  sor ; 
The   stiffs  that  Hned   the  wayside,  me  own 

pals  a-lyin'  there, 
Their  faces  covered  over  wiv  a  Httle  'eap  of 

stror. 


Tramp,  tramp,  the  red  road,  the  zcicked  bul- 
lets 'nmmin' 
(I've  panted  out  this  ditty  zcith  me  'ot  'ard 

breath). 
Tramp,  tramp,   the  dread  road,  the  Boches 

all  a-comin', 
The  lootin'  and  the  shootin    and  the  shrieks 

o'  death. 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  fell  road,  the  mad  'orde 

pursuin'  there, 
And  'oiv  zve  'nrled  it  back  again,  them  grim, 

grey  zvares; 
Tramp,  tramp,  the  'ell  road,  the  'orror  and  the 

ruin  there, 
The  graves  of  me  mateys  there,  the  grim, 

sour  graves. 


[31] 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE 
MC  PHEE 

''  Hae  ye  heard  whit  ma  auld  mither's  postit 

tae  me? 
It  fair  maks  me  hamesick,"  says  Private  Mc- 

Phee. 
"  And  whit  did  she  send  ye  ?  "  says  Private 

McPhun, 
As  he  cockit  his  rifle  and  bleezed  at  a  Hun. 
**  A  haggis  !     A  haggis  !  "  says  Private  Mc- 

Phee ; 
*'  The  brawest  big  haggis  I  ever  did  see. 
And  think!  it's  the  morn  when  fond  mem- 
ory turns 
Tae  haggis  and  whuskey  —  the  Birthday  o' 

Burns. 
We  maun  find  a  dram;  then  we'll  ca'  in  the 

rest 
O'  the  lads,  and  we'll  hae  a  Burns  Nicht  wi' 

the  best." 

^'  Be   ready   at   sundoon,"   snapped   Sergant 
McCole ; 

[32] 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MCPHEE 

"  I  want  you  two  men  for  the  List'nin'  Pa- 
trol." 

Then  Private  McPhee  looked  at  Private  Mc- 
Phun: 

"  I'm  thinkin',  ma  lad,  we're  confoundedly 
done." 

Then  Private  McPhun  looked  at  Private 
McPhee ; 

"  I'm  thinkin',  auld  chap,  it's  a'  aff  wi'  oor 
spree." 

But  up  spoke  their  crony,  wee  Wullie  Mc- 
Nair : 

"  Jist  lea'  yer  braw  haggis  for  me  tae  pre- 
pare; 

And  as  for  the  dram,  if  I  search  the  camp 
roun'. 

We  maun  hae  a  drappie  tae  jist  hand  it  doon. 

Sae  rin,  lads,  and  think,  though  the  nicht  it 
be  black, 

O'  the  haggis  that's  waitin'  ye  when  ye  get 
back." 

My!  but  it  wis  waesome  on  Naebuddy's 
Land, 


[33] 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

And  the  deid  they  were  rottin'  on  every  hand. 

And  the  rockets  Hke  corpse  candles  hauntit 
the  sky. 

And  the  winds  o'  destruction  went  shudderin' 
by. 

There  wis  skelpin'  o'  bullets  and  skirlin'  o' 
shells. 

And  breengin'  o'  bombs  and  a  thoosand  death- 
knells  ; 

But  cooryin'  doon  in  a  Jack  Johnson  hole 

Little  fashed  the  twa  men  o'  the  List'nin'  Pa- 
trol. 

For  sweeter  than  honey  and  bricht  as  a  gem 

Wis  the  thocht  o'  the  haggis  that  waitit  for 
them. 


Yet  alas!  in  oor  moments  o'  sunniest  cheer 

Calamity's  aften  maist  cruelly  near. 

And  while  the  twa  talked  o'  their  puddin'  di- 
vine 

The  Boches  below  them  were  howkin'  a  mine. 

And  while  the  twa  cracked  o'  the  feast  they 
would  hae, 

The  fuse  it  w^is  burnin'  and  burnin'  away. 

[34] 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MCPHEE 

Then  sudden  a  roar  like  the  thunner  o'  doom, 
A  hell-leap  o'  flame  .  .  .  then  ^he  wheesht  o' 
the  tomb. 

"  Haw,  Jock !  Are  ye  hurtit?  "  says  Private 
McPhun. 

"  Ay,  Geordie,  they've  got  me  ;  Tm  fearin'  I'm 
done. 

It's  ma  leg;  I'm  jist  thinkin'  it's  aff  at  the 
knee  ; 

Ye'd  best  gang  and  leave  me,"  says  Private 
iMcPhee. 

"  Oh  leave  ye  I  wunna,"  says  Private  Mc- 
Phun; 

"  And  leave  ye  I  canna,  for  though  I  micht 
run, 

It's  no  faur  I  wud  gang,  it's  no  muckle  I'd 
see : 

I'm  blindit,  and  that's  whit's  the  maitter  wi' 
me." 

Then  Private  McPhee  sadly  shakit  his  heid: 

"If  we  bide  here  for  lang,  we'll  be  bidin'  for 
deid. 

And  yet,  Geordie  lad,  I  could  gang  weel  con- 
tent 

[35] 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MCPHEE 

If   I'd   tasted   that   haggis   ma  auld   mither 

sent." 
"That's   droll,"   says   McPhun ;   '' ye've   jist 

speakit  ma  mmd. 
Oh  I  ken  it's  a  terrible  thing  tae  be  blind; 
And  yet  it's  no  that  that  embitters  ma  lot  — 
It's  missin'  that  braw   muckle  haggis  ye've 

got." 
For  a  while  they  were  silent;  then  up  once 

again 
Spoke  Private  AlcPhee,  though  he  whussilt 

wi'  pain : 
"  And  why  should  we  miss  it  ?     Between  you 

and  me 
We've  legs  for  tae  run,  and  we've  eyes  for 

tae  see. 
You  lend  me  your  shanks  and  I'll  lend  you 

ma  sicht, 
And  we'll  baith  hae  a  kyte-fu'  o'  haggis  the 

nicht." 
Oh,  the  sky  it  wis  dourlike  and  dreepin'  a 

wee, 
When  Private  McPhun  gruppit  Private  Mc- 

Phee. 

[36] 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

Oh  the  glaur  it  wis  fyhn'  and  crieshin'  the 

grun ! 
When  Private   McPhee  guidit  Private   Mc- 

Phun. 
"  Keep  clear  o'  them  corpses  —  they're  may- 
be no  deid ! 
Haud    on!     There's    a    big    muckle    crater 

aheid. 
Look  oot !     There's  a  sap ;  we'll  be  haein'  a 

coup. 
A   staur-shell !     For    Godsake !     Doun,   lad, 

on  yer  daiip. 
Bear  aff  tae  yer  richt.  .  .  .  Aw  yer  jist  daein' 

fine: 
Before  the  nicht's  feenished  on  haggis  we'll 

dine." 

There  wis  death  and  destruction  on  every 

hand; 
There  wis  havoc  and  horror  on  Naebuddy's 

Land. 
And  the  shells  bickered  doun  wi'  a  crump  and 

a  glare, 
And  the  hameless  wee  bullets  were  dingin' 

the  air. 

[371 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

Yet  on  they  went  staggerin',  cooryin'  doun 
When  the  stutter  and  cluck  o'  a  Maxim  crept 

roun'. 
And  the  legs  o'  McPhun  they  were  sturdy 

and  stoot, 
And  McPhee  on  his  back  kept* a  bonnie  look- 

oot. 
"  On,  on,  ma  brave  lad !     We're  no  faur  f rae 

the  goal; 
I  can  hear  the  braw  sweerin'  o'  Sergeant  AIc- 

Cole." 

But    strength    has    its    leemit,    and    Private 

McPhun, 
Wi'  a  sob  and  a  curse  fell  his  length  on  the 

grun'. 
Then   Private   McPhee  shoutit  doon  in  his 

ear: 
"Jist  think  o'  the  haggis!     I  smell  it  from 

here. 
It's  gushin'  wi'  juice,  it's  embaumin'  the  air; 
It's  steamin'  fer  us,  and  we're  —  jist  —  aboot 

—  there." 
Then  Private  McPhun  answers :     "  Dommit, 

auld  chap ! 

[38] 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MCPHEE 

For  the  sake  o'  that  haggis  I'll  gang  till  I 

drap." 
And  he  gets  on  his  feet  wi'  a  heave  and  a 

strain, 
And  onward  he  staggers  in  passion  and  pain. 
And  the  flare  and  the  glare  and  the  fury  in- 
crease, 
Till  you'd  think  they'd  jist  taken  a'  hell  on  a 

lease. 
And  on  they  go  reelin'  in  peetifu'  plight, 
And  someone  is  shoutin'  away  on  their  right ; 
And  someone  is  runnin',  and  noo  they  can 

hear 
A  sound  like  a  prayer  and  a  sound  like  a 

cheer ; 
And  swift  th/ough  the  crash  and  the  flash 

and  the  din. 
The  lads  o'  the  Hielands  are  bringin'  them  in. 
''  They're  baith  sairly  woundit,  but  is  it  no 

droll 
Hoo  they  rave  aboot  haggis  ?  "  says  Sergeant 

McCole. 
When  hirplin  alang  comes  wee  W^ullie  ^Ic- 

Xair, 

[39] 


THE  HAGGIS  OF  PRIVATE  MC  PHEE 

y\nd  they  a'  wonnert  why  he  wis  greetin'  sae 

sair. 
And  he  says :     "  I'd  jist  liftit  it  oot  o'  the  pet, 
And  there  it  lay  steamin'  and  savoury  hot ; 
When  sudden  I  dooked  at  the  fleech  o'  a  shell, 
And  it  —  dropped  on  the  haggis  and  dinged 

it  tae  hell." 


And  oh  but  the  lads  were  fair  taken  aback; 
Then  sudden  the  order  wis  passed  tae  attack, 
And  up   from  the  trenches  like  lions  they 

leapt. 
And  on  through  the  nicht  like  a  torrent  they 

swept. 
On,  on,  wi'  their  bayonets  thirstin'  before ! 
On,  on  tae  the  foe  wi'  a  rush  and  a  roar ! 
And  wild  to  the  welkin  their  battle-cry  rang, 
And   doon   on   the   Boches   like   tigers   they 

sprang : 
And  there  wisna'  a  man  but  had  death  in  his 

ee. 
For  he  thocht  o'  the  haggis  o'  Private  Mc- 

Phee. 


[40] 


THE  LARK 


THE  LARK 

From  wrath-red  dawn  to  wrath-red  dawn, 

The  guns  have  brayed  without  abate ; 

And  now  the  sick  sun  looks  upon 

The  bleared,  blood-boltered  fields  of  hate 

As  if  it  loathed  to  rise  again. 

How  strange  the  hush  !     Yet  sudden,  hark  ! 

From  yon  down-trodden  gold  of  grain, 

The  leaping  rapture  of  a  lark. 

A  fusillade  of  melody. 

That  sprays  us  from  yon  trench  of  sky ; 

A  new  amazing  enemy 

We  cannot  silence  though  we  try; 

A  battery  on  radiant  wings, 

That  from  yon  gap  of  golden  fleece 

Hurls  at  us  hopes  of  such  strange  things 

As  joy  and  home  and  love  and  peace. 

Pure  heart  of  song!  do  you  not  know 
That  we  are  making  earth  a  hell? 

[41] 


THE  LARK 


Or  is  it  that  you  try  to  show 
Life  still  is  joy  and  all  is  well? 
Brave  little  wings !     Ah,  not  in  vain 
You  beat  into  that  bit  of  blue : 
Lo !  we  who  pant  in  war's  red  rain 
Lift  shining  eyes,  see  Heaven  too. 


[42] 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT 
TGGINS 

j\Ie  and  Ed  and  a  stretcher 

Out  on  the  nootral  ground. 

(If  there's  one  dead  corpse,  I'll  betcher 

There's  a  'undred  smellin'  around.) 

Me  and  Eddie  O'Brian, 

Both  of  the  R.A.M.C. 

"  It's  a  'ell  of  a  night 

For  a  soul  to  take  flight," 

As  Eddie  remarks  to  me. 

Me  and  Ed  crawlin'  'omeward, 

Thinkin'  our  job  is  done, 

When  sudden  and  clear, 

Wot  do  we  'ear: 

'Owl  of  a  wounded  'Un. 

"  Got  to  take  'im,"  snaps  Eddy ; 
"  Got  to  take  all  we  can. 
'E  ma3^  be  a  Germ 

[43] 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

Wiv  the  'cart  of  a  worm, 

But,  blarst  'im !  ain't  'e  a  man  ?  " 

So  'e  sloshes  out  fixin'  a  dressin* 

('E'd  always  a  medical  knack), 

When  that  wounded  'Un 

'E  rolls  to  'is  gun. 

And  'e  plugs  me  pal  in  the  back. 

Now  what  would  you  do,  I  arst  you  ? 

There  was  me  slaughtered  mate. 

There  was  that  'Un 

(I'd  cohered  'is  gun), 

A-snarlin'  'is  'ymn  of  'ate. 

Wot  did  I  do  ?     'Ere,  whisper  .  .  . 

'E'd  a  shiny  bald  top  to  'is  'ead. 

But  when  I  got  through, 

Between  me  and  you. 

It  was  'orrid  and  jaggy  and  red. 

"  'Ang  on  like  a  limpet,  Eddy. 
Thank  Gord !  you  ain't  dead  after  all." 
It's  slow  and  it's  sure  and  it's  steady 
(Which  is  'ard,  for  'e's  big  and  I'm  small), 
The  rockets  are  shootin'  and  shinin', 

[44] 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

It's  rainin'  a  perishin'  flood, 

The  bullets  are  buzzin'  and  whinin', 

And  I'm  up  to  me  stern  in  the  mud. 

There's  all  kmds  of  'owlin'  and  'ootin' ; 

It's  black  as  a  bucket  of  tar; 

Oh  I'm  doin'  my  bit. 

But  I'm  'avin  a  fit. 

And  I  wish  I  was  'ome  wiv  Mar. 

"  Stick  on  like  a  plaster,  Eddy. 

Old  sport,  you're  a-slackin'  your  grip." 

Gord !     But  I'm  crocky  already  ; 

My  feet,  'ow  they  slither  and  slip ! 

There  goes  the  biff  of  a  bullet. 

The  Boches  have  got  us  for  fair. 

Another  one —  JVhiit! 

The  son  of  a  slut ! 

'E  managed  to  miss  by  a  'air. 

'Ow !     Wot  was  it  jabbed  at  me  shoulder? 

Gave  it  a  dooce  of  a  wrench. 

Is  it  Eddy  or  me 

Wot's  a-bleedin'  so  free? 

Crust !  but  it's  long  to  the  trench. 

I  ain't  just  as  strong  as  a  Sandow, 

[45] 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

And  Ed  ain't  a  flapper  by  far; 
I'm  blamed  if  I  understand  'ow 
We've  managed  to  get  where  we  are. 
But  'ere's  for  a  bit  of  a  breather. 
"  Steady  there,  Ed,  'arf  a  mo'. 
Old  pal,  it's  all  right ; 
It's  a  'ell  of  a  fight, 
But  are  we  down-'earted  ?    No-o-o.'* 


Now  war  is  a  funny  thing,  ain't  it  ? 

It's  the  rummiest  sort  of  a  go. 

For  when  it's  most  real. 

It's  then  that  you  feel 

You're  a-watchin'  a  cinema  show. 

'Ere's  me  wot's  a  barber's  assistant. 

Hey  presto!     It's  somewheres  in  France, 

And  Pm  'ere  in  a  pit 

Where  a  coal-box  'as  'it. 

And  it's  all  like  a  giddy  romance. 

The  ruddy  quick-firers  are  spittin'. 

The  'eavies  are  bellowin'  'ate. 

And  'ere  I  am  cashooly  sittin', 

And  'oldin'  the  'ead  of  me  mate. 

Them  gharstly  green  star-shells  is  beamin* 

[46] 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

'Ot  shrapnel  is  poppin'  like  rain, 

And     I'm     sayin':     ''Bert     'Iggins,     you're 

dreamin', 
And  you'll  wake  up  in  'Ampstead  again. 
You'll  wake  up  and  'ear  yourself  sayin' : 
'  Would  you  like,  sir,  to  'ave  a  shampoo  ?  ' 
'Stead  of  sheddin'  yer  blood 
In  the  rain  and  the  mud, 
Which  is  some'ow  the  right  thing  to  do ; 
Which  is  some'ow  yer  'eary-eyed  docty, 
Wot  you're  doin'  the  best  wot  you  can, 
For  'Ampstead  and  'ome  and  beauty. 
And  you've  been  and  you've  slaughtered  a 

man. 
A  feller  wot  punctured  your  partner ; 
Oh,  you  'ammered  'im  'ard  on  the  'ead. 
And  you  still  see  'is  eyes 
Starin'  bang  at  the  skies, 
And  you  ain't  even  sorry  'e's  dead. 
But  you  wish  you  was  back  in  your  diggin's 
Asleep  on  your  mouldy  old  stror. 
Oh,  you're  doin'  yer  bit,  'Erbert  'Iggins, 
But  you  ain't  just  enjoyin'  the  war." 


[47] 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

'Ang  on  like  a  hoctopus,  Eddy. 

It's  us  for  the  bomb-belt  again. 

Except  for  the  shrap 

Which  'as  'it  me  a  tap, 

I'm  feelin'  as  right  as  the  rain. 

It's  my  silly  old  feet  wot  are  slippin', 

It's  as  dark  as  a  'ogs'ead  o'  sin, 

But  don't  be  oneasy,  my  pippin, 

I'm  goin'  to  pilot  you  in. 

It's  my  silly  old  'ead  wot  is  reelin'. 

The  bullets  is  buzzin'  like  bees. 

Me  shoulder's  red-'ot, 

And  I'm  bleedin'  a  lot, 

And  me  legs  is  on'inged  at  the  knees. 

But  we're  staggerin'  nearer  and  nearer. 

Just  stick  it,  old  sport,  play  the  game. 

I  make  'em  out  clearer  and  clearer. 

Our  trenches  a-snappin'  with  flame. 

Oh,  we're  stumblin'  closer  and  closer. 

'Ang  on  there,  lad !     Just  one  more  try. 

Did  you  say :     Put  you  down  ?     Damn  it,  no, 


sir 


I'll  carry  you  in  if  I  die. 

By  cracky !  old  feller,  they've  seen  us. 

They're  sendin'  out  stretchers  for  two. 

[48] 


THE  ODYSSEY  OF  'ERBERT  'IGGINS 

Let's  give  'em  the  hoorah  between  us 

('Anged  lucky  we  arn't  booked  through). 

My  flipper  is  mashed  to  a  jelly. 

A  bullet  'as  tickled  your  spleen. 

We've  shed  lots  of  gore 

And  we're  leakin'  some  more, 

But  —  wot  a  hoccasion  it's  been  ? 

Ho !     'Ere  comes  the  rescuin'  party. 

They're  crawlin'  out  cautious  and  slow. 

Come !     Buck  up  and  greet  'em,  my  'earty, 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  so. 

They  mustn't  think  we  was  down-'earted. 

Old  pal,  we  was  never  down-'earted. 

If  they  arsts  us  if  we  was  down-'earted 

We'll  'owl  in  their  fyces :     *  No-o-o.'  " 


[49] 


A  SONG  OF  WINTER  WEATHER 


A  SONG  OF  WINTER 
WEATHER 

It  isn't  the  foe  that  we  fear ; 

It  isn't  the  bullets  that  whine ; 

It  isn't  the  business  career 

Of  a  shell,  or  the  bust  of  a  mine ; 

It  isn't  the  snipers  who   seek 

To  nip  our  young  hopes  in  the  bud : 

No,  it  isn't  the  guns, 

And  it  isn't  the  Huns  — 

It's  the  mudj 

mud, 

mud. 

It  isn't  the  melee  we  mind. 
That  often  is  rather  good  fun. 
It  isn't  the  shrapnel  we  find 
Obtrusive  when  rained  by  the  ton ; 
It  isn't  the  bounce  of  the  bombs 
That  gives  us  a  positive  pain : 
It's  the  strafing  we  get 
When  the  weather  is  wet, — 

[50] 


A  SONG  OF  WINTER  WEATHER 

It's  the  rain, 

rain, 

rain. 

It  isn't  because  we  lack  grit 

We  shrink  from  the  horrors  of  war. 

We  don't  mind  the  battle  a  bit ; 

In  fact  that  is  what  we  are  for ; 

It  isn't  the  rum- jars  and  things 

Make  us  wish  we  were  back  in  the  fold : 

It's  the  fingers  that  freeze 

In   the   boreal  breeze  — 

It's  the  cold. 

cold, 

cold. 

Oh,  the  rain,  the  mud,  and  the  cold, 

The  cold,  the  mud,  and  the  rain ; 

W^ith  weather  at  zero  it's  hard   for  a  hero 

From  language  that's  rude  to  refrain. 

With  porridgy  muck  to  the  knees, 

With  sky  that's  a-pouring  a  flood, 

Sure  the  worst  of  our  foes 

Are  the  pains  and  the  woes 

Of  the  rain  J 

the  cold, 

and  the  mud. 
[SI] 


TIPPERARY  DAYS 


TIPPERARY  DAYS 

Oh,  weren^t  they  the  fine  boys !     You  never 

saw  the  beat  of  them, 
Singing     all     together     with    their    throats 

bronze-bare ; 
Fighting-fit  and  mirth-mad,  music  in  the  feet 

of  them, 
Swinging   on   to   glory   and    the    wrath   out 

there. 
Laughing  by  and  chaffing  by,   frolic  in  the 

smiles  of  them, 
On  the  road,  the  white  road,  all  the  after- 
noon ; 
Strangers  in  a  strange  land,  miles  and  miles 

and  miles  of  them, 
Battle-bound  and  heart-high,  and  singing  this 

tune: 

It's  a  long  ivay  to  Tipperary, 
It's  a  long  way  to  go; 

[52] 


TIPPERARY  DAYS 


It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary, 

And  the  sweetest  girl  I  knozv. 

Good-bye,  Piccadilly, 

Farezvell,  Leicester  Square: 

It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Tipperary, 

But  my  heart's  right  there. 


Come,  Yvonne  and  Juliette !     Come,  Mimi, 

and  cheer  for  them ! 
Throw  them  flowers  and  kisses  as  they  pass 

you  by. 
Aren't  they  the  lovely  lads !     Haven't  you  a 

tear  for  them 
Going  out  so  gallantly  to  dare  and  die? 
What  is  it  they're  singing  so?     Some  high 

hymn  of  Motherland? 
Some  immortal  chanson  of  their  Faith  and 

King? 
Marseillaise  or  Brabangon,  anthem  of  that 

other  land, 
Dears,   let   us   remember   it,   that   song  they 

sing : 

[53]    • 


TIPPERARY  DAYS 


'"  Cest  un  chemin  long  '  to  Tepararec, 
Cest  tin  chemin  long,  c'cst  vrai; 
C'est  tin  chemin  long  '  to  Tepararec,' 
Et  la  belle  fille  qu'je  counais; 
Bon  jo  iir,  Peekadeely ! 
Au  revoir,  Lestaire  Squaire! 
Cest  un  chemin  long  '  to  Tepararee,' 
Mais  mon  coeur  '  ees  zaire!  " 


The    gallant    old    "  Contemptibles  " !     There 

isn't  much  remams  of  them, 
So  full  of  fun  and  fitness,  and  a-singing  in 

their  pride ; 
For  some  are  cold  as  clabber  and  the  corby 

picks  the  brains  of  them. 
And  some  are  back  in  Blighty,  and  a-wishing 

they  had  died. 
And  yet  it  seems  but  yesterday,  that  great, 

glad  sight  of  them, 
Swinging  on  to  battle  as  the  sky  grew  black 

and  black ; 
But,  oh  their  glee  and  glory,  and  the  great, 

grim  fight  of  them !  — 
•[54] 


TIPPERARY  DAYS 


Just    whistle    Tipperary    and    it    all    comes 
back: 

It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary 

{Which  means  '^'ome"  anywhere)  ; 

Ifs  a  long  way  to  Tipperary 

(And  the  things  zvot  make  you  care). 

Good-bye,  Piccadilly, 

{'Ow  I  'opes  my  folks  is  zvell)  ; 

It's  a  long,  long  ivay  to  Tipperary  — 

CR!    Ain't  War  just 'ell?) 


[55] 


FLEURETTE 

FLEURETTE 

(The  Wounded  Canadian  Speaks) 

My  leg?    It's  off  at  the  knee. 

Do  I  miss  it?    Well,  some.    You  see 

IVe  had  it  since  I  was  born; 

And  lately  a  devilish  corn. 

(I  rather  chuckle  with  glee 

To  think  of  how  I've  fooled  that  com.) 

But  I'll  hobble  around  all  right. 
It  isn't  that,  it's  my  face. 
Oh  I  know  I'm  a  hideous  sights 
Hardly  a  thing  in  place ; 
Sort  of  gargoyle,  you'd  say; 
Nurse  won't  give  me  a  glass, 
But  I  see  the  folks  as  they  pass 
Shudder  and  turn  away ; 
Turn  away  in  distress  .  .  . 
Mirror  enough,  I  guess. 

I'm  gay !    You  bet  I  am  gay ; 
But  I  wasn't  a  while  ago. 
If  you'd  seen  me  even  to-day, 
[S6] 


FLEURETTE 


The  darndest  picture  of  woe, 
With  this  Cahban  mug  of  mine, 
So  ravaged  and  raw  and  red, 
Turned  to  the  wall  —  in  fine, 
Wishing  that  I  was  dead.  .  .  . 
What  has  happened  since  then, 
Since  I  lay  with  my  face  to  the  wall, 
The  most  despairing  of  men? 
Listen!     I'll  tell  you  all. 

That  poilu  across  the  way, 

With  the  shrapnel  wound  in  his  head, 

Has  a  sister :  she  came  to-day 

To  sit  awhile  by  his  bed. 

All  morning  I  heard  him  fret : 

"  Oh,  when  will  she  come,  Fleurette  ?  " 

Then  sudden,  a  joyous  cry; 

The  tripping  of  little  feet; 

The  softest,  tenderest  sigh ; 

A  voice  so  fresh  and  sweet ; 

Clear  as  a  silver  bell. 

Fresh  as  the  morning  dews : 

"  Cest  toi,  c'est  toi,  Marcel! 

Mon  frcre,  comnie  je  suis  heureuse!'* 

[57] 


FLEURETTE 

So  over  the  blanket's  rim 

I  raised  my  terrible  face, 

And  I  saw  —  how  I  envied  him ! 

A  girl  of  such  delicate  grace; 

Sixteen,  all  laughter  and  love ; 

As  gay  as  a  linnet,  and  yet 

As  tenderly  sweet  as  a  dove; 

Half  woman,  half  child  —  Fleurette. 

Then  I  turned  to  the  wall  again. 
(I  was  awfully  blue,  you  see.) 
And  I  thought  with  a  bitter  pain : 
"  Such  visions'  are  not  for  me." 
So  there  like  a  log  I  lay. 
All  hidden,  I  thought,  from  view, 
When  sudden  I  heard  her  say : 
"Ah!     Who  is  that  malheiireux? " 
Then  briefly  I  heard  him  tell 
(However  he  came  to  know) 
How  I'd  smothered  a  bomb  that  fell 
Into  the  trench,  and  so 
None  of  my  men  were  hit, 
Though  it  busted  me  up  a  bit. 

Well,  I  didn't  quiver  an  eye, 

[58] 


FLEURETTE 


And  he  chattered  and  there  she  sat ; 
And  I  fancied  I  heard  her  sigh  — 
Though  I  wouldn't  just  swear  to  that. 
And  maybe  she  wasn't  so  bright, 
Though  she  talked  in  a  merry  strain, 
And  I  closed  my  eyes  ever  so  tight, 
Yet  I  saw  her  ever  so  plain : 
Her  dear  little  tilted  nose, 
Her  delicate  dimpled  chin, 
Her  mouth  like  a  budding  rose, 
And  the  glistening  pearls  within; 
Her  eyes  like  the  violet : 
Such  a  rare  little  queen  —  Fleurette. 

And  at  last  when  she  rose  to  go, 

The  light  was  a  little  dim, 

And  I  ventured  to  peep,  and  so 

I  saw  her,  graceful  and  slim, 

And  she  kissed  him  and  kissed  him,  and  oh. 

How  I  envied  and  envied  him ! 

So  when  she  was  gone  I  said 

In  rather  a  dreary  voice 

To  him  of  the  opposite  bed: 

"Ah,  friend,  how  you  must  rejoice! 

But  me,  I'm  a  thing  of  dread. 

[59] 


FLEURETTE 


For  me  nevermore  the  bliss, 
The  thrill  of  a  woman's  kiss." 

Then  I  stopped,  for  lo !  she  was  there, 
And  a  great  light  shone  in  her  eyes. 
And  me !     I  could  only  stare, 
I  was  taken  so  by  surprise, 
When  gently  she  bent  her  head: 
"May  I  kiss  you,  Sergeant?"  she  said. 

Then  she  kissed  my  burning  lips 
With  her  mouth  like  a  scented  flower, 
And  I  thrilled  to  the  finger-tips, 
And  I  hadn't  even  the  power 
To  say :     *'  God  bless  you,  dear !  " 
And  I  felt  such  a  precious  tear 
Fall  on  my  withered  cheek. 
And  darn  it!     I  couldn't  speak. 

And  so  she  went  sadly  away, 

And  I  knew  that  my  eyes  were  wet; 

Ah,  not  to  my  dying  day 

Will  I  forget,  forget ! 

Can  you  wonder  now  I  am  gay? 

God  bless  her,  that  little  Fleurette! 

[60] 


FUNK 


FUNK 

When  your  marrer  bone  seems  'oiler, 

And  you're  glad  you  ain't  no  taller, 

And  you're  all  a-shakin'  like  you  'ad  the  chills ; 

When  your  skin  creeps  like  a  pullet's, 

And  you're  duckin'  all  the  bullets, 

And  you're  green  as  gorgonzola  round  the 

gills ; 
When  your  legs  seem  made  of  jelly, 
And  you're  squeamish  in  the  belly. 
And  you  want  to  turn  about  and  do  a  bunk: 
For   Gawd's   sake,   kid,   don't   show   it! 
Don't  let  your  mateys  know  it  — 
You're  just  sufferin'  from  funk,  funk,  funk. 


Of  course  there's  no  denyin' 
That  it  ain't  so  easy  tryin' 
To  grin  and  grip  your  rifle  by  the  butt. 
When  the  'ole  world  rips  a-sunder. 
And  you  sees  yer  pal  go  under, 
[6i] 


FUNK 


As  a  bunch  of  shrapnel  sprays  'im  on  the 

nut; 
I  admit  it's  'ard  contrivin', 
When  you  'ears  the  shells  arrivin^ 
To  discover  you're  a  bloomin'  bit  o'  spunk ; 
But,  my  lad,  you've  got  to  do  it, 
And  your  God  will  see  you  through  it, 
For  wot  'E  'ates  is  funk,  funk,  funk. 

So  stand  up,  son ;  look  gritty. 

And  just  'um  a  lively  ditty. 

And  only  be  afraid  to  be  afraid; 

Just  'old  yer  rifle  steady. 

And  'ave  yer  bay'nit  ready, 

For  that's  the  way  good  soldier-men  is  made. 

And  if  you  'as  to  die. 

As  it  sometimes  'appens,  why. 

Far  better  die  a  'ero  than  a  skunk, 

A-doin'  of  yer  bit. 

And  so  —  to  'ell  with  it, 

There  ain't  no  bloomin'  funk,  funk,  funk. 


[62] 


OUR  HERO 


OUR  HERO 

"  Flowers,   only   flowers  —  bring   me   dainty 

posies, 
Blossoms  for  forgetfulness,"  that  was  all  he 

said; 
So  we  sacked  our  gardens,  violets  and  roses, 
Lilies  white  and  bluebells  laid  we  on  his  bed. 
Soft  his  pale  hands  touched  them,  tenderly 

caressing ; 
Soft  into  his  tired  eyes  came  a  little  light ; 
Such  a  wistful  love-look,  gentle  as  a  blessing; 
There  amid  the  flowers  waited  he  the  night. 

''  I  would  have  you  raise  me ;  I  can  see  the 

West  then : 
I  would  see  the  sun  set  once  before  I  go." 
So  he  lay  a-gazing,  seemed  to  be  at  rest  then, 
Quiet  as  a  spirit  in  the  golden  glow. 
So  he  lay  a-watching  rosy  castles  crumbling. 
Moats  of  blinding  amber,  bastions  of  flame. 
Rugged  rifts  of  opal,  crimson  turrets  tum- 
bling ; 
So  he  lay  a-dreaming  till  the  shadows  came. 

[63] 


OUR  HERO 


**  Open  wide  the  window ;  there's  a  lark 
a-singing ; 

There's  a  glad  lark  singing  in  the  evening  sky. 

How  it's  wild  with  rapture,  radiantly  wing- 
ing: 

Oh  it's  good  to  hear  that  when  one  has  to  die. 

I  am  horror-haunted  from  the  hell  they  found 
me; 

I  am  battle-broken,  all  I  want  is  rest. 

Ah !  It's  good  to  die  so,  blossoms  all  around 
me. 

And  a  kind  lark  singing  in  the  golden  West." 

**  Flowers,  song  and  sunshine,  just  one  thing 
is  wanting, 

Just  the  happy  laughter  of  a  little  child." 

So  we  brought  our  dearest.  Doris  all-enchant- 
ing; 

Tenderly  he  kissed  her ;  radiant  he  smiled. 

"  In  the  golden  peace-time  you  will  tell  the 
story 

How  for  you  and  yours,  sweet,  bitter  deaths 
were  ours.  .  .  . 

God  bless  little  children !  "  So  he  passed  to 
glory. 

So  we  left  him  sleeping,  still  amid  the  flow'rs. 

[64] 


MY  MATE 


MY  MATE 

I've  been  sittin'  starin',  starin'  at  'is  muddy 
pair  of  boots, 

And  tryin'  to  convince  meself  it's  'im. 

(Look  out  there,  lad!  That  sniper — 'e's  a 
dysey  when  'e  shoots ; 

'E'll  be  layin'  off  you  out  the  same  as  Jim.) 

Jim  as  lies  there  in  the  dug-out  with  'is  blan- 
ket round  'is  'ead, 

To  keep  'is  brains  from  mixin'  wi'  the  mud ; 

And  'is  face  as  white  as  putty,  and  'is  over- 
coat all  red, 

Like  'e's  spilt  a  bloomin'  paint-pot  —  but  it's 
blood. 

And  I'm  tryin'  to  remember  of  a  time  we 
w^asn't  pals. 

'Ow  often  we've  played  'ookey,  'im  and  me ; 

And  sometimes  it  was  music-'alls,  and  some- 
times it  was  gals, 

[65] 


MY  MATE 


And  even  there  we  'ad  no  disagree. 

For  when  'e  copped  Maria  Jones,  the  one  I 

liked  the  best, 
I  shook  'is  'and  and  loaned  'im  'arf  a  quid ; 
I  saw  'im  through  the  parson's  job,  I  'elped 

'im  make  'is  nest, 
I  even  stood  god-farther  to  the  kid. 


So  w^hen  the  war  broke  out,  sez  'e :     ''  Well, 

wot  abaht  it,  Joe  ?  " 
''Well,  wot  abaht  it,  lad?"  sez  I  to  'im. 
'Is  missis  made  a  awful  fuss,  but  'e  was  mad 

to  go 
('E  always  was  'igh-sperrited  was  Jim). 
Well,  none  of  it's  been  'eaven,  and  the  most 

of  it's  been  'ell. 
But  we've  shared  our  baccy,  and  we've  'alved 

our  bread. 
We'd  all  the  luck  at  Wipers,  and  we  shaved 

through  Noove  Chapelle, 
And  .  .  .    that  snipin'  barstard  gits  'im  on  the 

'ead. 


[66] 


MY  MATE 


Now  wot  I  wants  to  know  is,  why  it  wasn't 

me  was  took? 
I've  only  got  meself,  'e  stands  for  three. 
I'm  plainer  than  a  louse,  while  'e  was  'and- 

some  as  a  dook ; 
'E  always  was  a  better  man  than  me. 
'E  was  goin'  'ome  next  Toosday ;  'e  was  'appy 

as  a  lark, 
And  'e'd  just  received  a  letter  from  'is  kid; 
And  'e  struck  a  match  to  show  me,  as  we 

stood  there  in  the  dark, 
When  .  .  .  that  blecdin'   bullet  got   'im   on 

the  lid. 


'E  was  killed  so  awful  sudden  that  'e  *adn't 
time  to  die. 

'E  sorto  jumped,  and  came  down  wiv  a  thud. 

Them  corpsy-lookin'  star-shells  kept  a- 
streamin'  in  the  sky, 

And  there  'e  lay  like  nothin'  in  the  mud. 

And  there  'e  lay  so  quiet  wiv  no  mansard  to 
'is  'ead, 

And  I'm  sick,  and  blamed  if  I  can  under- 
stand : 

[67] 


MY  MATE 


The  pots  of  'alf  and  'alf  we've  'ad,  and  sip! 

like  that — 'e's  dead, 
Wiv  the  letter  of  'is  nipper  in  'is  'and. 

There's    some    as   fights    for    freedom    and 

there's  some  as  fights  for  fun. 
But  me,  my  lad,  I  fights  for  bleedin'  'ate. 
You  can  blame  the  war  and  blast  it,  but  I 

'opes  it  won't  be  done 
Till  I  gets  the  bloomin'  blood-price  for  me 

mate. 
It'll  take  a  bit  o'  bayonet  to  level  up  for  Jim ; 
Then  if  I'm  spared  I  think  I'll  'ave  a  bid. 
With  'er  that  was  Mariar  Jones  to  take  the 

place  of  'im. 
To  sorter  be  a  farther  to  'is  kid. 


[68] 


MILKING  TIME 


MILKING  TIME 

There's  a  drip  of  honeysuckle  in  the  deep 

green  lane ; 
There's  old  Martin  jogging  homeward  on  his 

worn  old  wain; 
There  are  cheery  petals  falling,  and  a  cuckoo 

calling,  calling, 
And  a  score  of  larks   (God  bless  'em)   .  .  . 

but  it's  all  pain,  pain. 
For  you  see  I  am  not  really  there  at  all,  not 

at  all ; 
For  you  see  I'm  in  the  trenches  where  the 

crump-crumps  fall ; 
And  the  bits  o'  shells  are  screaming  and  it's 

only  blessed  dreaming 
That  in  fancy  I  am  seeming  back  in  old  Saint 

Pol. 

Oh,   Fve  thought  of  it  so  often  since  Fve 

come  down  here ; 
And  I  never  dreamt  that  any  place  could  be 

so  dear; 

[69] 


MILKING  TIME 


The  silvered  whinstoiie  houses,  and  the  rosy 

men  in  blouses, 
And  the  kindly,   white-capped  women   with 

their  eyes  spring-clear. 
And  mother's  sitting  knitting  where  her  roses 

climb. 
And  the  angelus  is  calling  with  a  soft,  soft 

chime, 
And  the  sea-wind  comes  caressing,  and  the 

light's  a  golden  blessing, 
And   Yvonne,   Yvonne   is  guessing  that  it's 

milking  time. 


Oh,  it's   Sunday,   for  she's  wearing  of  her 

broidered  gown ; 
And  she  draws  the  pasture  pickets  and  the 

cows  come  down; 
And   their    feet   are   powdered   yellow,   and 

their  voices  honey-mellow, 
And  they  bring  a  scent  of  clover,  and  their 

eyes  are  brown. 
And  Yvonne  is  dreaming  after,  but  her  eyes 

are  blue; 

[70] 


MILKING  TIME 


And  her  lips  are  made  for  laughter,  and  her 

white  teeth  too ; 
And  her  mouth  is  like  a  cherry,  and  a  dimple 

mocking  merry 
Is  lurking  in  the  very  cheek  she  turns  to  you. 


So  I  walk  beside  her  kindly,  and  she  laughs 

at  me; 
And  I  heap  her  arms  with  lilac  from  the  lilac 

tree; 
And  a  golden  light  is  welling,  and  a  golden 

peace  is  dwelling, 
And  a  thousand  birds   are   telling  how   it's 

good  to  be. 
And  what  are  pouting  lips  for  if  they  can't 

be  kissed? 
And  I've  filled  her  arms  with  blossom  so  she 

can't  resist ; 
And  the  cows  are  sadly  straying,  and  her 

mother  must  be  saying 
That    Yvonne    is    long    delaying  .  .  .  God! 

Hozv  close  that  missed! 

[71] 


MILKING  TIME 


A   nice  polite   reminer  that  the   Boche  are 

nigh; 
That  we're  here  to  fight  hke  devils,  and  if 

need-be  die; 
That    from   kissing  pretty   wenches   to   the 

frantic  firing-benches 
Of  the  battered,  tattered  trenches  is  a  far,  far 

cry. 
Yet  still  I'm  sitting  dreaming  in  the  glare  and 

grime ; 
And  once  again  I'm  hearing  of  them  church- 
bells  chime ; 
And  how  I  wonder  whether  in  the  golden 

summer  weather 
We  will   fetch  the  cows  together  when  it's 

milking  time.  .  .  . 

English  voice,  months  later: — 
"  Ow  Bill!     A  rottin'  Frenchy,     Whew!    'E 

ain't  'arf  prime."  .  .  . 


[72] 


YOUNG  FELLOW  MY  LAD 


YOUNG  FELLOW  MY  LAD 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad, 
On  this  glittering  morn  of  May?  " 
*'  I'm  going  to  join  the  Colours,  Dad; 
They're  looking  for  men,  they  say." 
"  But  you're  only  a  boy,  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad; 
You  aren't  obliged  to  go." 
"  I'm  seventeen  and  a  quarter.  Dad, 
And  ever  so  strong,  you  know." 

:>:  H:  ^  ^  >|(  ^ 

*'  So  you're  ofif  to  France,  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad, 
And  you're  looking  so  fit  and  bright." 
"  I'm  terribly  sorry  to  leave  you.  Dad, 
But  I  feel  that  I'm  doing  right." 
"  God  bless  you  and  keep  you.  Young  Fellow 

My  Lad, 
You're  all  of  my  life,  you  know." 
"  Don't  worry.     I'll  soon  be  back,  dear  Dad, 
And  I'm  awfully  proud  to  go." 

:ic  ^  jj;  *  *  * 

[73] 


YOUNG  FELLOW  MY  LAD 


''  Why  don't  you  write,  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad? 
I  watch  for  the  post  each  day ; 
And  I  miss  you  so,  and  I'm  awfully  sad, 
And  it's  months  since  you  went  away. 
And  I've  had  the  fire  in  the  parlour  lit. 
And  I'm  keeping  it  burning  bright 
Till  my  boy  comes  home ;  and  here  I  sit 
Into  the  quiet  night." 


'*  What   is   the   matter,   Young   Fellow    My 

Lad? 
No  letter  again  to-day. 
Why  did  the  postman  look  so  sad. 
And  sigh  as  he  turned  away  ? 
I    hear    them    tell    that    we've    gained    new 

ground. 
But  a  terrible  price  we've  paid. 
God  grant,   my  boy,   that   you're   safe   and 

sound ; 
But  oh  I'm  afraid,  afraid." 


[74]. 


YOUNG  FELLOW  MY  LAD 


**  They've  told  me  the  truth,  Young  Fellow 

My  Lad : 
You'll  never  come  back  again. 
(0  God!  the  dreams  and  the  dreams  I've  had, 
And  the  hopes  I've  nursed  in  vain!) 
For  you  passed  in  the  night,  Young  Fellow 

My  Lad, 
And  you  proved  in  the  cruel  test 
Of  the  screaming  shell  and  the  battle  hell 
That  my  boy  was  one  of  the  best." 

"  So  you'll  live,  you'll  live,  Young  Fellow  My 

Lad, 
In  the  gleam  of  the  evening  star, 
In  the  wood  note  wild  and  the  laugh  of  the 

child. 
In  all  sweet  things  that  are. 
And  you'll  never  die,  my  wonderful  boy, 
While  life  is  noble  and  true ; 
For  all  our  beauty  and  hope  and  joy 
We  will  owe  to  our  lads  like  you." 


[75] 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 

No,  Bill,  I'm  not  a-spooning  out  no  patriotic 

tosh 
(The  cove  be'ind  the  sandbags  ain't  a  death- 

or-glory  cuss). 
And  though  I  strafes  'em  good  and  'ard  I 

doesn't  'ate  the  Boche, 
I  guess  they're  mostly  decent,  just  the  same 

as  most  of  us. 
I  guess  they  loves  their  'omes  and  kids  as 

much  as  you  or  me, 
And  just  the  same  as  you  or  me  they'd  rather 

shake  than  fight; 
And  if  we'd  'appened  to  be  born  at  Berhn- 

on-the-Spree, 
We'd  be  out  there  with  'Ans  and  Fritz,  dead 

sure  that  we  was  right. 


A-standin'  up  to  the  sandbags 
It's  funny  the  thoughts  wot  come; 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 


Starin'  into  the  darkness, 

'Earin'  the  bullets  'um ; 

(Zing!  Zip  Ping!  Rip! 

'Ark  'ozv  the  bullets  'um!) 

A-leanin'  against  the  sandbags 

Wiv  me  rifle  under  me  ear, 

Oh,  I've  'ad  more  thoughts  on  a  sentry-go 

Than  I  used  to  'ave  in  a  year. 

I  wonder,  Bill,  if  'Ans  and  Fritz  is  wonderin' 

like  me 
Wot's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all?     Wot  all  the 

slaughter's  for? 
'E  thinks  'e's  right   (of  course  'e  ain't)   but 

this  we  both  agree, 
If  them  as  made  it  'ad  to  fight,  there  wouldn't 

be  no  war. 
If  them  as  lies  in  feather  beds  while  we  kips 

in  the  mud; 
If  them  as  makes  their  fortoons  while   we 

fights  for  'em  like  'ell ; 
If  them  as  slings  their  pots  of  ink  just  'ad 

to  sling  their  blood: 
By  Crust !  I'm  thinkin'  there  'ud  be  another 

tale  to  tell. 

[77^ 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 


Shiverin'  up  to  the  sandbags, 

With  a  hicicle  'stead  of  a  spine, 

Don't  it  seem  funny  the  things  you  think 

'Ere  in  the  firin'  hne: 

(Wheel  WJiiit!  Ziz!  Zut! 

Lord!    'Ozv  the  bullets  zvhine!) 

Hunkerin'  down  when  a  star-shell 

Cracks  in  a  sputter  of  light, 

You  can  jaw  to  your  soul  by  the  sandbags 

'Most  any  old  time  o'  night. 


They  talks  o'  England's  glory  and  a-'oldin' 

of  our  trade, 
Of  Empire  and  'igh  destiny  until  we're  fair 

film-flammed ; 
But  if  it's  for  the  likes  o'  that  that  bloody 

war  is  made. 
Then  wot  I  say  is :     Empire  and  'igh  destiny 

be   damned ! 
There's  only  one  good  cause,  Bill,  for  poor 

blokes  like  us  to  fight: 
That's  self-defence,  fer  'earth  and  'ome,  and 

them  that  bears  our  name; 

[78] 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SANDBAGS 


And  that's  wot  I'm  a-doin'  by  the  sandbags 

'ere  to-night.  .  .  . 
But  Fritz  out  there  will  tell  you  'e's  a-doin' 

of  the  same. 

Starin'  over  the  sandbags, 

Sick  of  the  'ole  damn  thing ; 

Firin'  to  keep  meself  awake, 

'Earin'  the  bullets  sing. 

(Hiss!  Tzvang!  Tsing!  Pang! 

Saucy  the  bullets  sing.) 

Dreamin'  'ere  by  the  sandbags 

Of  a  day  when  war  will  cease. 

When  'Ans  and  Fritz  and  Bill  and  me 

Will  clink  our  mugs  in   fraternity, 

And  the  Brotherhood  of  Labour  will  be 

The  Brotherhood  of  Peace. 


[79] 


ON  THE  WIRE 


ON  THE  WIRE 

Oh  God,  take  the  sun  from  the  sky ! 
It's  burning  me,  scorching  me  up. 
God,  can't  You  hear  my  cry? 
Water!     A  poor,  little  cup! 
It's  laughing,  the  cursed  sun! 
See  how  it  swells  and  swells 
Fierce  as  a  hundred  hells! 
God,  will  it  never  have  done? 
It's  searing  the  flesh  on  my  bones; 
It's  beating  with  hammers  red 
My  eyeballs  into  my  head  ; 
It's  parching  my  very  moans. 
See!     It's  the  size  of  the  sky, 
And  the  sky  is  a  torrent  of  fire, 
Foaming  on  me  as  I  lie 
Here  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire.  .  .  . 

Of  the  thousands  that  wheeze  and  hum 
Heedlessly  over  my  head. 
Why  can't  a  bullet  come. 
Pierce  to  my  brain  instead ; 
Blacken  forever  my  brain, 
[Sol 


ON  THE  WIRE 


Finish  forever  my  pain? 

Here  in  the  helhsh  glare 

Why  must  I  suffer  so? 

Is  it  God  doesn't  care? 

Is  it  God  doesn't  know? 

Oh,  to  be  killed  outright, 

Clean  in  the  clash  of  the  fight! 

That  is  a  golden  death, 

That  is  a  boon ;  but  this  .  .  . 

Drawing  an  anguished  breath 

Under  a  hot  abyss, 

Under  a  stooping  sky 

Of  seething,  sulphurous  fire, 

Scorching  me  up  as  I  lie 

Here  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire. 

Hasten,  O  God,  Thy  night ! 
Hide  from  my  eyes  the  sight 
Of  the  body  I  stare  and  see 
Shattered  so  hideously. 
I  can't  beheve  that  it's  mine. 
My  body  was  white  and  sweet, 
Flawless  and  fair  and  fine, 
Shapeless  from  head  to  feet; 
Oh  no,  I  can  never  be 
[8i] 


ON  THE  WIRE 


The  thing  of  horror  I  see 

Under  the  rifle  fire, 

Trussed  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire. 

Of  night  and  of  death  I  dream; 
Night  that  will  bring  me  peace, 
Coolness  and  starry  gleam, 
Stillness  and  death's  release: 
Ages  and  ages  have  passed  — 
Lo !  it  is  night  at  last. 
Night !  but  the  guns  roar  out. 
Night !  but  the  hosts  attack. 
Red  and  yellow  and  black 
Geysers  of  doom  upspout. 
Silver  and  green  and  red 
Star-shells  hover  and  spread. 
Yonder  ofif  to  the  right 
Fiercely  kindles  the  fight; 
Roaring  near  and  more  near. 
Thundering  now  in  my  ear; 
Close  to  me,  close  .  .  .  Oh,  hark! 
Someone  moans  in  the  dark. 
I  hear,  but  I  cannot  see, 
I  hear  as  the  rest  retire, 
Someone  is  caught  like  me, 
Caught  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire. 

[82] 


ON  THE  WIRE 


Again  the  shuddering  dawn, 
Weird  and  wicked  and  wan ; 
Again,  and  I've  not  yet  gone. 
The  man  whom  I  heard  is  dead. 
Now  I  can  understand : 
A  bullet  hole  in  his  head, 
A  pistol  gripped  in  his  hand. 
Well,  he  knew  what  to  do, — 
Yes,  and  now  I  know  too.  .  .  . 

Hark  the  resentful  guns ! 
Oh,  how  thankful  am  I 
To  think  my  beloved  ones 
Will  never  know  how  I  die ! 
I've  suffered  more  than  my  share 
I'm  shattered  beyond  repair; 
I've  fought  like  a  man  the  fight, 
And  now  I  demand  the  right 
(God!  how  his  fingers  cling!) 
To  do  without  shame  this  thing. 
Good !  there's  a  bullet  still ; 
Now  I'm  ready  to  fire ; 
Blame  me,  God,  if  You  will. 
Here  on  the  wire  .  .  .  the  wire.  . 


[831 


BILL'S  GRAVE 


BILL'S  GRAVE 

I'm  gatherin'  flowers  by  the  wayside  to  lay 

on  the  grave  of  Bill; 
I've  sneaked  away  from  the  billet,  'cause  Jim 

wouldn't  understand ; 
'E'd  call  me  a  silly  fat'ead,  and  larf  till  it 

made  'im  ill, 
To  see  me  'ere  in  the  cornfield,  wiv  a  big 

bookay  in  me  'and. 


For  Jim  and  me  we  are  rough  uns,  but  Bill 

was  one  o'  the  best ; 
We  'listed  and  learned  together  to  larf  at  the 

wust  wot  comes; 
Then  Bill  copped  a  packet  proper,  and  took 

'is  departure  West, 
So  sudden  'e  'adn't  a  minit  to  say  good-bye  to 

'is  chums. 

[84] 


BILL'S  GRAVE 


And  they  took  me  to  where  'e  was  planted, 

a  sort  of  a  measly  mound, 
And,  thinks  I,  'ow  Bill  would  be  tickled,  bein' 

so  soft  and  queer, 
If  I  gathered  a  bunch  o'  them  wild-flowers, 

and  sort  of  arranged  them  round 
Like  a  kind  of  a  bloody  headpiece  .  .  .  and 

that's  the  reason  I'm  here. 


But  not  for  the  love  of  glory  I  wouldn't  'ave 

Jim  to  know. 
'E'd  call  me  a  slobberin'  Sissy,  and  larf  till  'is 

sides  was  sore ; 
I'd  'ave  larfed  at  meself  meself  too,  it  isn't 

so  long  ago ; 
But   some'ow   it   changes   a   feller,    'avin'   a 

taste  of  war. 

It  'elps  a  man  to  be  'elpful,  to  know  wot  'is 

pals  is  worth 
(Them  golden  poppies  is  blazin'  like  lamps 

some  fairy  'as  lit)  ; 
I'm  fond  o'  them  big  white  dysies.  .  .  .  Now 

Jim's  o'  the  salt  o'  the  earth; 
[851 


BILL'S  GRAVE 


But  'e  'as  got  a  tongue  wot's  a  terror,  and 
'e  ain't  sentimental  a  bit. 

I  likes  them  blue  chaps  wot's  'idin'  so  shylike 

among  the  corn. 
Won't  Bill  be  glad!     We  was  alius  thicker 

'n  thieves,  us  three. 
Why!     'Oo's   that   singin'    so    'earty?     Jim! 

And  as  sure  as  I'm  born 
'E's  there  in  the  giddy  cornfields,  a-gatherin' 

flowers  like  me. 

Quick !     Drop     me     posy     be'ind      me.     I 

watches  'im  for  a  while, 
Then    I    says :     "  Wot   'o,   there.    Chummy ! 

Wot  price  the  little  bookay  ?  " 
And  'e  starts  like  a  bloke  wot's  guilty,  and  'e 

says  with  a  sheepish  smile : 
"  She's  a  bit  of  orl   right,  the  widder  wot 

keeps  the  estaminay." 

So  'e  goes  away  in  a  'urray,  and  I  wishes  'im 

best  o'  luck, 
And   I  picks  up  me  bunch  o'  wild-flowers, 

and  the  light's  gettin'  sorto  dim, 
[86] 


BILL'S  GRAVE 


When  I  makes  me  way  to  the  boneyard,  and 
...  I  stares  Hke  a  man  wot's  stuck, 

For  wot  do  I  see?  Bill's  grave-mound 
strezi'n  with  the  flozvers  of  Jim. 

Of  course  I  won't  never  tell  'im,  bein'  a  tacti- 
cal lad; 

And  Jim  parley-voos  to  the  widder :  "  Trez 
beans,  lamoor  ;  compree  ?  " 

Oh,  'e'd  die  of  shame  if  'e  knew  I  knew ;  but 
say !  won't  Bill  be  glad 

When  'e  stares  through  the  bleedin'  clods  and 
sees  the  blossoms  of  Jim  and  mc ! 


[87] 


JEAN  DESPREZ 


JEAN  DESPREZ 

Oh  ye  whose  hearts  are  resonant,  and  ring 

to  War's  romance, 
Hear  ye  the  story  of  a  boy,  a  peasant  boy  of 

France ; 
A  lad  uncouth  and  warped  with  toil,  yet  who, 

when  trial  came, 
Could  feel  within  his  soul  upleap  and  soar 

the  sacred  flame; 
Could  stand  upright,  and  scorn  and  smite,  as 

only  heroes  may : 
Oh,  barken !     Let  me  try  to  tell  the  tale  of 

Jean  Desprez. 


With  fire  and  sword  the  Teuton  horde  was 

ravaging  the  land, 
And   there   was   darkness   and   despair,   and 

death  on  every  hand; 
Red  fields  of  slaughter  sloping  down  to  ruin's 

black  abyss; 

[88] 


JEAN  DESPREZ 


The  wolves  of  war  ran  evil-fanged,  and  lit- 
tle did  they  miss. 

And  on  they  came  with  fear  and  flame,  to 
burn  and  loot  and  slay, 

Until  they  reached  the  red-roofed  croft,  the 
home  of  Jean  Desprez. 


*'  Rout  out  the  village,   one  and  all !  "   the 

Uhlan  Captain  said. 
''  Behold !     Some  hand  has  fired  a  shot.     My 

trumpeter  is  dead. 
Now  shall  they  Prussian  vengeance  know; 

now  shall  they  rue  the  day. 
For  by  this  sacred  German  slain,  ten  of  these 

dogs  shall  pay." 
They    drove    the    cowering    peasants    forth, 

women  and  babes  and  men, 
And   from  the  last,   with  many  a  jeer,  the 

Captain  chose  he  ten ; 
Ten  simple  peasants,  bowed  with  toil ;  they 

stood,  they  knew  not  why. 
Against  the  grey  wall  of  the  church,  hearing 

their  children  cry; 

[89] 


JEAN  DESPREZ 


Hearing  their  wives  and  mothers  wail,  with 

faces  dazed  they  stood. 
A  moment  only.  .  .  .  Ready!     Fire!     They 

weltered  in  their  blood. 


But  there  was  one  who  gazed  unseen,  who 

heard  the  frenzied  cries, 
Who  saw  these  men  in  sabots   fall  before 

their  children's  eyes; 
A  zouave  wounded  in  a  ditch,  and  knowing 

death  was  nigh, 
He  laughed  with  joy :     '*  Ah  !  here  is  where 

I  settle  ere  I  die." 
He  clutched  his  rifle  once  again,  and  long 

he  aimed  and  well.  .  .  . 
A  shot !     Beside  his  victims  ten  the  Uhlan 

Captain  fell. 

They  dragged  the  wounded  zouave  out ;  their 
rage  was  like  a  flame. 

With  bayonets  they  pinned  him  down,  until 
their  Major  came. 

A  blonde,  full-blooded  man  he  was,  and  ar- 
rogant of  eve; 

[90] 


JEAN  DESPREZ 


He   stared   to   see   with   shattered   skull   his 

favourite  Captain  lie. 
"  Nay,  do  not  finish  him  so  quick,  this  foreign 

swine,"  he  cried ; 
*'  Go  nail  him  to  the  big  church  door :  he  shall 

be  crucified." 


With  bayonets  through  hands  and  feet  they 

nailed  the  zouave  there. 
And  there  was  anguish  in  his  eyes,  and  horror 

in  his  stare; 
"  Water !     A  single  drop  !  "  he  moaned ;  but 

how  they  jeered  at  him. 
And  mocked  him  with  an  empty   cup,   and 

saw  his  sight  grow  dim ; 
And  as  in  agony  of  death  w^ith  blood  his  lips 

were  wet, 
The  Prussian  ]\Iajor  gaily  laughed,  and  lit  a 

cigarette. 

But    mid    the    white-faced    villagers    who 

cowered  in  horror  by, 
Was   one  who   saw  the  woeful   sight,   who 

heard  the  woeful  cry : 

[91] 


JEAN  DESPREZ 


*'  Water  !     One  little  drop,  I  beg  !     For  love 

of  Christ  who  died.  .  .  /' 
It  was  the  little  Jean  Desprez  who  turned  and 

stole  aside; 
It  was  the  little  bare-foot  boy  who  came  with 

cup  abrim. 
And  walked  up  to  the  dying  man,  and  gave 

the  drink  to  him. 


A  roar  of  rage !     They  seize  the  boy ;  they 

tear  him  fast  away. 
The  Prussian  Major  swings  around;  no  longer 

is  he  gay. 
His  teeth  are  wolfishly  agleam;  his  face  all 

dark  with  spite : 
''  Go,  shoot  the  brat,"  he  snarls,  "  that  dare 

defy  our  Prussian  might. 
Yet    stay !     I    have    another    thought.     I'll 

kindly  be,  and  spare; 
Quick !  give  the  lad  a  rifle  charged,  and  set 

him  squarely  there, 
And  bid  him  shoot,  and  shoot  to  kill.     Haste ! 

Make  him  understand 

[92] 


JEAN  DESPREZ 


The  dying  dog  he  fain  would  save  shall  per- 
ish by  his  hand. 

And  all  his  kindred  they  shall  see,  and  all 
shall  curse  his  name, 

Who  bought  his  life  at  such  a  cost,  the  price 
of  death  and  shame." 


They  brought  the  boy,  wild-eyed  with  fear; 

they  made  him  understand ; 
They  stood  him  by  the  dying  man,  a  rifle  in 

his  hand. 
"Make    haste!"    said    they;    "the    time    is 

short,  and  you  must  kill  or  die." 
The  Major  pufifed  his  cigarette,  amusement 

in  his  eye. 
And  then  the  dying  zouave  heard,  and  raised 

his  weary  head : 
"  Shoot,  son,  'twill  be  the  best  for  both ;  shoot 

swift  and  straight,"  he  said. 
"  Fire  first  and  last,  and  do  not  flinch,  for 

lost  to  hope  am  I ; 
And  I  will  murmur:  Vive  La  France!  and 

bless  you  ere  I  die." 

[93] 


JEAN  DESPREZ 


Half-blind  with  blows  the  boy  stood  there; 

he  seemed  to  swoon  and  sway ; 
Then  in  that  moment  woke  the  soul  of  little 

Jean  Desprez. 
He  saw  the  woods  go  sheening  down ;  the 

larks  were  singing  clear ; 
And  oh!  the   scents  and  sounds  of   spring, 

how  sweet  they  were !  how  dear ! 
He  felt  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay,  a  soft 

breeze  fanned  his  brow ; 
O,  God !  the  paths  of  peace  and  toil !     How 

precious  were  they  now  ! 
The  summer  days  and   summer  ways,   how 

bright  with  hope  and  bliss ! 
The  autumn  such  a  dream  of  gold  .  .  .  and 

all  must  end  in  this : 
This  shining  rifle  in  his  hand,  that  shambles 

all  around; 
That   Zouave   there   with   dying   glare;    the 

blood  upon  the  ground; 
The  brutal  faces  round  him  ringed,  the  evil 

eyes  afiame ; 
That   Prussian  bully   standing  by,   as   if   he 

watched  a  game. 


[94] 


JEAN  DESPREZ 


*'  Make  haste  and  shoot,"  the  Major  sneered; 

"  A  minute  more  I  give ; 
A  minute  more  to  kill  your  friend,  if  you 

yourself  would  live." 

They  only  saw  a  barefoot  boy,  with  blanched 

and  twitching  face ; 
They  did  not  see  within  his  eyes  the  glory  of 

his  race ; 
The  glory   of   a  million  men   who   for   fair 

France  have  died. 
The  splendour  of  self-sacrifice  that  will  not 

be  denied. 
Yet  ...  he  was  but  a  peasant  lad,  and  oh ! 

but  life  was  sweet.  .  .  . 
"  Your   minute's   nearly   gone,   my   lad,"   he 

heard  a  voice  repeat. 
"  Shoot !     Shoot !  "       the       dying       Zouave 

moaned  ;  "  Shoot !     Shoot !  "  the  soldiers 

said, 
Then  Jean  Desprez  reached  out  and  shot  .  .  . 

the  Prussian  Major  dead! 


[95] 


GOING  HOME 


GOING  HOME 

I'm  goin'  'ome  to  Blighty  —  ain't  I  glad  to 

'ave  the  chance ! 
I'm  loaded  up  with  fightin'  and  I've  'ad  my 

fill  o'  France ; 
I'm  feelin'  so  excited-like,  I  want  to  sing  and 

dance, 
For    I'm    goin'    'ome    to    Blighty    in    the 

mawnin'. 

I'm  goin'  'ome  to  Blighty :  can  you  wonder  as 

I'm  gay? 
I've  got  a  wound  I  wouldn't  sell  for  'alf  a 

year  o'  pay ; 
A  harm  that's  mashed  to  jelly  in  the  nicest 

sort  o'  way. 
For   it  takes   me   'ome  to   Blighty   in  the 

mawnin'. 

'Ow  everlastin'  keen  I  was  on  gettin'  to  the 
front ! 

[96] 


GOING  HOME 


I'd  ginger  for  a  dozen,  and  I  'elped  to  bear 

the  brunt; 
But  Cheese  and  Crust !     I'm  crazy,  now  I've 
done  me  little  stunt, 
To  sniff  the  air  of  Blighty  in  the  mawnin'. 

I've  looked  upon  the  wine  that's  white,  and 

on  the  wine  that's  red ; 
I've   looked   on   cider   flowin',   till    it    fairly 

turned  me  'ead ; 
But  oh,  the  finest  scoff  will  be,  when  all  is 
done  and  said, 
A  pint  o'  Bass  in  Blighty  in  the  mawnin' ! 

I'm  goin'  back  to  Blighty,  which   I   left  to 

strafe  the  'Un ; 
I've  fought  in  bloody  battles,  and  I've  'ad  a 

'eap  of  fun ; 
But  now  me  flipper's  busted,  and  I  think  me 

dooty's  done, 
And   I'll   kiss   me   gel   in    Blighty    in   the 

mawnin'. 

Oh,  there  be  furrin'  lands  to  see,  and  some 
of  'em  be  fine ; 

[97] 


GOING  HOME 


And  there  be  furrin'  gels  to  kiss,  and  scented 

f urrin'  wine ; 
But   there's  no   land  like  England,   and   no 

other  gel  like  mine : 
Thank  Gawd  for  dear  old  Blighty  in  the 

mawnin'. 


[98] 


COCOTTE 


COCOTTE 

When  a  girl's  sixteen,  and  as  poor  as  she's 

pretty, 
And  she  hasn't  a   friend  and  she  hasn't  a 

home. 
Heigh-ho !     She's  as  safe  in  Paris  city 
As    a    lamb    night-strayed    where    the    wild 

wolves  roam ; 
And  that  was  I.     Oh,  it's  seven  years  now 
(Some   water's   run   down   the    Seine   since 

then). 
And  I've  almost  forgotten  the  pangs  and  the 

tears  now, 
And  I've  almost  taken  the  measure  of  men. 


Oh,  I  found  me  a  lover  who  loved  me  only, 

Artist  and  poet,  and  almost  a  boy. 

And  my  heart  was  bruised,  and  my  life  was 

lonely, 
And  him  I  adored  with  a  wonderful  joy. 

[99] 


COCOTTE 


If  he'd  come  to  me  with  his  pockets  empty, 
How  we'd  have  laughed  in  a  garret  gay ! 
But  he  was  rich,  and  in  radiant  plenty 
We  lived  in  a  villa  at  Viroflay. 


Then  came  the  War,  and  of  bliss  bereft  me ; 
Then  came  the  call,  and  he  went  away ; 
All  that  he  had  in  the  world  he  left  me, 
With  the  rose- wreathed  villa  at  Viroflay. 
Then  came  the  news  and  the  tragic  story: 
My  hero,  my  splendid  lover  was  dead, 
Sword  in  hand  on  the  field  of  glory, 
And  he  died  with  my  name  on  his  lips,  they 
said. 


So  here  am  I  in  my  widow's  mourning, 
The  weeds  I've  really  no  right  to  wear; 
And  women  fix  me  with  eyes  of  scorning. 
Call  me  "  cocotte,"  but  I  do  not  care. 
And  men  look  at  me  with  eyes  that  borrow 
The  brightness  of  love,  but  I  turn  away ; 
Alone,  say  I,  I  will  live  with  Sorrow, 
In  my  little  villa  at  \^iroflay. 
[loo] 


COCOTTE 


And  lo!     I'm  living  alone  with  —  Pity, 
And  they  say  that  pity  from  love's  not  far; 
Let  me  tell  you  all :  last  week  in  the  city 
I  took  the  metro  at  Saint  Lazare; 
And  the  carriage  was  crowded  to  overflowing, 
And  when  there  entered  at  Chateaudun 
Two  wounded  poiliis  with  medals  showing, 
I  eagerly  gave  my  seat  to  one. 

You  should  have  seen  them:  they'd  slipped 

death's  clutches, 
But  sadder  a  sight  you  will  rarely  find ; 
One  had  a  leg  off  and  walked  on  crutches, 
The  other,  a  bit  of  a  boy,  was  blind. 
And  they  both  sat  down,  and  the  lad  was 

trying 
To  grope  his  way  as  a  blind  man  tries ; 
And  half  of  the  women  around  were  crying, 
And  some  of  the  men  had  tears  in  their  eyes. 

How  he  stirred  me,  this  blind  boy,  clinging 
Just  like  a  child  to  his  crippled  chum. 
But  I  did  not  cry.     Oh  no ;  a  singing 
Came  to  my  heart  for  a  year  so  dumb. 

[lOl] 


COCOTTE 


Then  I  knew  that  at  three-and-twenty 
There  is  wonderful  work  to  be  done, 
Comfort  and  kindness  and  joy  in  plenty, 
Peace  and  light  and  love  to  be  won. 

Oh,  thought  I,  could  mine  eyes  be  given 

To  one  who  will  live  in  the  dark  alway ! 

To   love   and   to    serve — 'twould   make   life 

Heaven 
Here  in  my  villa  at  Viroflay. 
So  I  left  my  poiliis:  and  now  you  wonder 
Why  to-day  I  am  so  elate.  .  .  . 
Look !     In  the  glory  of  sunshine  yonder 
They're  bringing  my  blind  boy  in  at  the  gate. 


[102] 


MY  BAY'NIT 


MY  BAY'NIT 

When  first   I  left   Blighty  they  gave  me   a 

bay'nit, 
And   told   me   it   'ad   to   be   smothered   wiv 

gore; 
But  blimey!     I  'aven't  been  able  to  stain  it, 
So  far  as  I've  gone  wiv  the  vintage  of  war. 
For  ain't  it  a  fraud !  when  a  Boche  and  yours 

truly 
Gits  into  a  mix  in  the  grit  and  the  grime, 
He  jerks  up  'is  'ands  wiv  a  yell,  and  'e's  duly 
Part  o'  me  outfit  ever)'  time. 

Left,  right,  Hans  and  Fritz  ! 
Goose  step,  keep  up  yer  mits ! 
Oh  my,  ain't  it  a  shyme! 
Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

At  toasting  a  biscuit  me  bay 'nit's  a  dandy ; 
I've  used  it  to  open  a  bully  beef  can ; 
For  pokin'  the  fire  it  comes  in  werry  'andy; 
For  any  old  thing  but  for  sticking  a  man. 
How  often  I  said :     "  'Ere,  I'm  goin'  to  press 
you 

[103] 


MY  BAY'NIT 


Into  a  'Un  till  you're  seasoned  for  prime," 
And  fiercely  I  rushes  to  do  it,  but  bless  you ! 
Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

Lor,  yus ;  don't  they  look  glad? 
Right  o  !     'Owl  Kamerad  ! 
Oh  my !  always  the  syme ! 
Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

I'm  'untin'  for  some  one  to  christen  me 
bay'nit, 

Some  nice  juicy  Chewton  wot's  fightin'  in 
France ; 

I'm  fairly  down-'earted — 'ow  can  yer  ex- 
plain it? 

I  keeps  gettin'  prisoners  every  chance. 

As  soon  as  they  sees  me  they  ups  and  sur- 
renders, 

Extended  like  monkeys  wot's  tr}'in'  to  climb ; 

And  I  uses  me  bay'nit  —  to  slit  their  sus- 
penders — 

Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 

Four  'Uns;  lor,  wot  a  bag! 
'Ere,  Fritz,  sample  a  fag ! 
Oh,  my !  ain't  it  a  gyme ! 
Part  of  me  outfit  every  time. 
[104] 


CARRY  ON'! 


CARRY  ON! 

It's   easy  to   fight  when  everything's   right, 
And  you're  mad  with  the  thrill  and  the  glory  ; 
It's  easy  to  cheer  when  victory's  near, 
And  wallow  in  fields  that  are  gory. 
It's  a  different  song  when  everything's  wrong, 
When  you're  feeling  infernally  mortal ; 
When  it's  ten  against  one,  and  hope  there  is 

none, 
Buck  up,  little  soldier,  and  chortle: 


Carry  on !     Carry  on  ! 
There  isn't  much  punch  in  your  blow. 
You're  glaring  and  staring  and  hitting  out 

blind; 
You're  muddy   and  bloody,   but  never  you 
mind. 
Carry  on !     Carry  on  ! 
Yon  haven't  the  ghost  of  a  show. 

[105] 


CARRY  ON ! 


It's  looking  like  death,  but  while  you've  a 
breath, 
Carry  on,  my  son !     Carry  on  ! 

And  so  in  the  strife  of  the  battle  of  life 
It's  easy  to  fight  when  you're  winning ; 
It's  easy  to  slave,  and  starve  and  be  brave, 
When  the  dawn  of  success  is  beginning. 
But  the  man  who  can  meet  despair  and  defeat 
With  a  cheer,  there's  the  man  of  Gk)d's  choos- 
ing; 
The  man  who  can  fight  to  Heaven's  own 

height 
Is  the  man  who  can  fight  when  he's  losing. 

Carry  on !     Carry  on  ! 
Things  never  were  looming  so  black ; 
But  show  that  you  haven't  a  cowardly  streak, 
And  though  you're  unlucky  you  never  are 
weak. 
Carry  on !     Carry  on  ! 
Brace  up  for  another  attack. 
It's  looking  like  hell,  but  —  you  never  can 
tell: 
Carry  on,  old  man !     Carry  on ! 
[io6] 


CARRY  ON! 


There  are  some  who  drift  out  in  the  deserts 

of  doubt, 
And  some  who  in  brutishness  wallow ; 
There  are  others,  I  know,  who  in  piety  go, 
Because  of  a  Heaven  to  follow. 
But  to  labour  with  zest,  and  to  give  of  your 

best. 
For  the  sweetness  and  joy  of  the  giving ; 
To  help  folks  along  with  a  hand  and  a  song : 
Why,  there's  the  real  sunshine  of  living. 

Carry  on  !     Carry  on  ! 
Fight  the  good  fight  and  true ; 
Believe  in  your  mission,  greet  dawn  with  a 

cheer ; 
There's  big  work  to  do  and  that's  why  you 
are  here. 
Carry  on!     Carry  on! 
Let  the  world  be  the  better  for  you  ; 
And  at  last  when  you  die,  let  this  be  your 
cry: 
Carry  on,  my  soul!     Carry  on! 


[107] 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 

All  day  long  when  the  shells  sail  over 
I  stand  at  the  sandbags  and  take  my  chance ; 
But  at  night,  at  night  I'm  a  reckless  rover, 
And  over  the  parapet  gleams  Romance. 
Romance!     Romance!     How    I've    dreamed 

it,  writing 
Dreary  old  records  of  money  and  mart, 
Me  with  my  head  chuckfiil  of  fighting 
And  the  blood  of  vikings  to  thrill  my  heart. 

But  little  I  thought  that  my  time  was  com- 
ing, 

Sudden  and  splendid,  supreme  and  soon ; 

And  here  I  am  with  the  bullets  humming 

As  I  crawl  and  I  curse  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Out  alone,  for  adventure  thirsting, 

Out  in  mysterious  No  Man's  Land ; 

Prone  with  the  dead  when  a  star-shell,  burst- 
ing. 

Flares  on  the  horrors  on  every  hand. 
[io8] 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 


There  are  ruby  stars  and  they  drip  and 
wiggle ; 

And  the  grasses  gleam  in  a  light  blood-red ; 

There  are  emerald  stars,  and  their  tails  they 
wriggle, 

And  ghastly  they  glare  on  the  face  of  the 
dead. 

But  the  worst  of  all  are  the  stars  of  white- 
ness, 

That  spill  in  a  pool  of  pearly  flame, 

Pretty  as  gems  in  their  silver  brightness. 

And  etching  a  man  for  a  bullet's  aim. 

Yet  oh,  it's  great  to  be  here  with  danger, 
Here  in  the  weird,  death-pregnant  dark, 
In  the  devil's  pasture  a  stealthy  ranger, 
When  the  moon  is  decently  hiding.     Hark  ! 
What  was  that?     Was  it  just  the  shiver 
Of  an  eerie  wind  or  a  clammy  hand? 
The  rustle  of  grass,  or  the  passing  quiver 
Of  one  of  the  ghosts  of  Xo  Plan's  Land? 

It's  only  at  night  when  the  ghosts  awaken, 
And  gibber  and  whisper  horrible  things ; 
[109] 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 


For  to  every  foot  of  this  God-forsaken 
Zone  of  jeopard  some  horror  chngs. 
Ugh!     What  was  that?     It  felt  hke  a  jelly, 
That  flattish  mound  in  the  noisome  grass; 
You  three  big  rats  running  free  of  its  belly, 
Out  of  my  way  and  let  me  pass ! 

But  if  there's  horror,  there's  beauty,  wonder ; 
The    trench    lights    gleam    and    the    rockets 

play. 
That  flood  of  magnificent  orange  yonder 
Is  a  battery  blazing  miles  away. 
With  a   rush  and   a   singing  a  great   shell 

passes; 
The  rifles  resentfully  bicker  and  brawl, 
And    here    I    crouch    in    the    dew-drenched 

grasses, 
And  look  and  listen  and  love  it  all. 


God!     What    a    life!     But    I    must    make 

haste  now, 
Before  the  shadow  of  night  be  spent. 
It's  little  the  time  there  is  to  waste  now,  ' 
If  I'd  do  the  job  for  which  I  was  sent. 
[no] 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 


My  bombs  are  right  and  my  clippers  ready, 
And  I  wriggle  out  to  the  chosen  place, 
When    I    hear    a    rustle.  .  .  .  Steady !  .  .  . 

Steady ! 
Who  am  I  staring  slap  in  the  face  ? 

There  in  the  dark  I  can  hear  him  breathing, 

A  foot  away,  and  as  still  as  death ; 

And  my  heart  beats  hard,  and  my  brain  is 

seething, 
And  I  know  he's  a  Hun  by  the  smell  of  his 

breath. 
Then:     **  Will  you   surrender?"    I   whisper 

hoarsely, 
For  it's  death,  swift  death  to  utter  a  cry. 
**  English      schwein-hund ! "      he     murmurs 

coarsely. 
"  Then  we'll  fight  it  out  in  the  dark,"  say  I. 

So  we  grip  and  we  slip  and  we  trip  and 

wrestle 
There  in  the  gutter  of  Xo  Man's  Land ; 
And  I  feel  my  nails  in  his  wind-pipe  nestle, 
And  he  tries  to  gouge,  but  I  bite  his  hand. 

[HI] 


OVER  THE  PARAPET 


And  he  tries  to  squeal,  but  I  squeeze  him 

tighter : 
"  Xow,"  I  say,  *'  I  can  kill  you  fine ; 
But  tell  me  first,  you  Teutonic  blighter! 
Have    you    any    children?"     He    answers: 

"  Nein." 

Nine!     Well,  I  cannot  kill  such  a  father, 
So  I  tie  his  hands  and  I  leave  him  there. 
Do  I  finish  my  little  job?     Well,  rather; 
And,  I   get   home   safe   with   some   light   to 

spare. 
Heigh-ho!  by  day  it's  just  prosy  duty. 
Doing  the  same  old  song  and  dance ; 
But  oh!  with  the  night  —  joy,  glory,  beauty: 
Over  the  parapet  —  Life,  Romance! 


[112] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL 
SAM 

You  want  me  to  tell  you  a  story,  a  yarn  of 

the  firin'  line, 
Of  our  thin  red  kharki  'eroes,  out  there  where 

the  bullets  whine; 
Out  there  where  the  bombs  are  bustin',  and 

the  cannons  like  'ell-doors  slam  — 
Just  order  another  drink,  boys,  and  I'll  tell 

you  of  Soulful  Sam. 


Oh,  Sam,  he  was  never  'ilarious,  though  I've 

'ad  some  mates  as  was  wus  ; 
He  'adn't  C.  B.  on  his  programme,  he  never 

was  known  to  cuss. 
For  a  card  or  a  skirt  or  a  beer-mug  he  'adn't 

a  friendly  word; 
But  when  it  came  down  to  Scriptures,  say ! 

Wasn't  he  just  a  bird! 
["3] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

He  always  'ad  tracts  in  his  pocket,  the  which 

he  would  haste  to  present, 
And  though  the  fellers  would  use  them  in 

ways  that  they  never  was  meant, 
I  used  to  read  'em  religious,  and   frequent 

I've  been  impressed 
By  some  of  them  bundles  of   'oly  dope  he 

carried  around  in  his  vest. 


For  I  —  and  oh,  'ow  I  shudder  at  the  'orror 

the  word  conveys ! 
'Ave  been  —  let  me  whisper  it  'oarsely  —  a 

gambler  'alf  of  me  days ; 
A  gambler,  you  'ear  —  a  gambler.     It  makes 

me  wishful  to  weep. 
And   yet   'ow   it's  true,  my  brethren!  —  I'd 

rather  gamble  than  sleep. 


I've    gambled    the    'ole    w^orld    over,    from 

Monte  Carlo  to  Maine; 
From    Dawson    City    to    Dover,    from    San 

Francisco  to  Spain. 
[114] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

Cards!     They  'ave  been  me  ruin.     They've 

taken  me  pride  and  me  pelf, 
And  when  I'd  no  one  to  play  with  —  why,  I'd 

go  and  I'd  play  by  meself. 


And  Sam  'e  would  sit  and  watch  me,  as  I 

shuffled  a  greasy  deck, 
And  'e'd  say :     "  You're  bound  to  Perdition," 

And  I'd  answer:     "  Git  off  me  neck  !  " 
And   that's    'ow   we    came   to   get    friendly, 

though  built  on  a  different  plan, 
Me  wot's  a  desprite  gambler,  'ini  sich  a  good 

young  man. 


But  on  to  me  tale.     Just  imagine  .  .  .  Dark- 
ness!    The   battle-front! 

The      furious     'Uns     attackin' !     Us      ones 
a-bearin'  the  brunt ! 

Me  crouchin'  be'ind  a  sandbag,  tryin'  'ard  to 
keep  calm. 

When  I  'ears  some  one  singin'  a  'ymn  toon ; 
—  be'old!  it  is  Soulful  Sam. 
[IIS] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

Yes,  right  in  the  crash  of  the  combat,  in  the 

fury  of  flash  and  flame, 
'E  was  shootin'  and  singin'  serenely  as  if  'e 

enjoyed  the  same.  . 
And  there  in  the  'eat  of  the  battle,  as  the 

'ordes  of  demons  attacked. 
He  dipped  down  into  'is  tunic,  and  'e  'anded 

me  out  a  tract. 


Then  a  star-shell  flared,  and  I  read  it :  Oh 
Flee  From  The  Wrath  To  Come! 

Nice  cheerful  subject,  I  tell  yer,  when  you're 
'earin'  the  bullets  'um. 

And  before  I  'ad  time  to  thank  'im,  just  one 
of  them  bits  of  lead 

Comes  slingin'  along  in  a  'urry,  and  it  'its  my 
partner.  .  .  .  Dead? 


No,   siree !     Not   by  a   long   sight !     For   it 
plugged  'im  'ard  on  the  chest. 

Just    where    'e'd    tracts    for   a    army    corps 
stowed  away  in  'is  vest. 
[ii6] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUL  SAM 

On  its  mission  of  death  that  bullet  'ustled 

along,  and  it  caved 
A  'ole  in  them  tracts  to  'is  'ide,  boys, —  but 

the  life  o'  me  pal  was  saved. 


And  there  as  'e  showed  me  in  triumph,  and 
'orror  was  chokin'  me  breath, 

On  came  another  bullet  on  its  'orrible  mis- 
sion of  death ; 

On  through  the  night  it  cavorted,  seekin'  its 
'aven  of  rest, 

And  it  zipped  through  a  crack  in  the  sand- 
bags, and  it  wolloped  me  bang  on  the 
breast. 


Was  I  killed,  do  you  ask?  Oh  no,  boys. 
Why  am  I  sittin'  'ere 

Gazin'  with  mournful  vision  at  a  mug  long 
empty  of  beer? 

With  a  throat  as  dry  as  a  —  oh,  thanky !  I 
don't  much  mind  if  I  do. 

Beer  with  a  dash  of  'ollands,  that's  my  par- 
ticular brew. 

[117] 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SOULFUI   SAM 

Yes,   that   was  a   terrible   moment.     It   'am- 

mered  me  'ard  o'er  the  'eart ; 
It   bowled   me   down   like   a   ninepin,   and   I 

looked  for  the  gore  to  start ; 
And  I  saw  in  the  flash  of  a  moment,  in  that 

thunder  of  hate  and  strife, 
Me  wretched  past  like  a  pitchur  —  the  sins 

of  a  gambler's  life. 

For  I   'ad  no  tracts  to  save  me,  to  thwart 

that  made  missile's  doom ; 
I  'ad  no  pious  pamphlets  to  'elp  me  to  cheat 

the  tomb ; 
I  'ad  no  'oly  leaflets  to  bafi^e  a  bullet's  aim ; 
I'd  only  —  a  deck  of  cards,  boys,  but  .  .  . 

it  seemed  to  do  just  the  same. 


[ii8] 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 

We  brought  him  in  from  between  the  hnes : 

we'd  better  have  let  him  He ; 
For  what's  the  use  of  risking  one's  skin  for 

a  tyke  that's  going  to  die  ? 
What's  the  use  of  tearing  him  loose  under  a 

gruelling  fire, 
When  he's  shot  in  the  head,  and  worse  than 

dead,  and  all  messed  up  on  the  wire  ? 
However,  I  say,  we  brought  him  in.     Diable! 

The  mud  was  bad; 
The  trench  was  crooked  and  greasy  and  high, 

and  oh,  what  a  time  we  had ! 
And  often  we  slipped,  and  often  we  tripped, 

but  never  he  made  a  moan ; 
And  how  we  were  wet  with  blood  and  with 

sweat,  but  we  carried  him  in  like  our 

own. 

Now  there  he  lies  in  the  dug-out  dim,  await- 
ing the  ambulance, 

[119] 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 


And  the  doctor  shrugs  his  shoulders  at  him, 
and  remarks,  *'  He  hasn't  a  chance." 

As  we  squat  and  smoke  at  our  game  of  bridge 
on  the  gHstening,  straw-packed  floor, 

And  above  our  oaths  we  can  hear  his  breath 
deep-drawn  in  a  kind  of  snore. 

For  the   dressing   station   is   long   and   low, 

and  the  candles  gutter  dim, 
And  the  mean  light   falls  on  the  cold  clay 

walls  and  our  faces  bristly  and  grim ; 
And  we  flap  our  cards  on  the  lousy  straw, 

and  we  laugh  and  jibe  as  we  play, 
And  you'd  never  know  that  the  cursed  foe 

was  less  than  a  mile  away. 
As  we  con  our  cards  in  the  rancid  gloom, 

oppressed  by  that  snoring  breath, 
You'd    never    dream    that    our   broad    roof- 

beam  was  swept  by  the  broom  of  death. 

Heigh-ho!     My  turn  for  the  dummy  hand; 

I  rise  and  I  stretch  a  bit; 
The  fetid  air  is  making  me  yawn,  and  my 

cigarette's  unlit, 

[120] 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 


So  I  go  to  the  nearest  candle  flame,  and  the 

man  we  brought  is  there, 
And  his   face  is   white  in  the  shabby  Hght, 

and  I  stand  at  his  feet  and  stare. 
Stand    for    awhile,    and    quietly    stare :    for 

strange  though  it  seems  to  be, 
The  dying  Boche  on  the  stretcher  there  has 

a  queer  resemblance  to  me. 

It  gives  one  a  kind  of  a  turn,  you  know,  to 
come  on  a  thing  like  that. 

It's  just  as  if  I  were  lying  there,  with  a  tur- 
ban of  blood  for  a  hat, 

Lying  there  in  a  coat  grey-green  instead  of 
a  coat  grey-blue, 

With  one  of  my  eyes  all  shot  away,  and  my 
brain  half  tumbling  through ; 

Lying  there  with  a  chest  that  heaves  like  a 
bellows  up  and  down, 

And  a  cheek  as  white  as  snow  on  a  grave, 
and  lips  that  are  coffee  brown. 

And  confound  him,  too !  He  wears,  like  me, 
on  his  finger  a  wedding  ring, 

[121] 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 


And  around  his  neck,  as  around  my  own,  by 

a  greasy  bit  of  string, 
A  locket  hangs  with  a  woman's  face,  and  I 

turn  it  about  to  see: 
Just  as  I  thought  ...  on  the  other  side  the 

faces  of   children   three ; 
Clustered   together    cherub-like,    three    little 

laughing  girls, 
With  the  usual  tiny  rosebud  mouths  and  the 

usual  silken  curls. 
"  Zut !  "  I  say,  "  he  has  beaten  me ;  for  me, 

I  have  only  two," 
And   I   push    the   locket   beneath   his    shirt, 

feeling  a  little  blue. 


Oh,  it  isn't  cheerful  to  see  a  man,  the  marvel- 
lous work  of  God, 

Crushed  in  the  mutilation  mill,  crushed  to  a 
smeary  clod ; 

Oh,  it  isn't  cheerful  to  hear  him  moan,  but 
it  isn't  that  I  mind, 

It  isn't  the  anguish  that  goes  with  him,  it's 
the  anguish  he  leaves  behind. 

[122] 


ONLY  A  BOCHE 


For  his  going  opens  a  tragic  door  that  gives 

on  a  world  of  pain, 
And  the  death  he  dies,  those  who  Hve  and 

love,  will  die  again  and  again. 

So  here  I  am  at  my  cards  once  more,  but  it's 

kind  of  spoiling  my  play. 
Thinking  of  those  three  brats  of  his  so  many 

a  mile  away. 
War  is  war,  and  he's  only  a  Boche,  and  we 

all  of  us  take  our  chance ; 
But  all  the  same  I'll  be  mighty  glad  when 

I'm  hearing  the  ambulance. 
One  foe  the  less,  but  all  the  same  I'm  heartily 

glad  I'm  not 
The  man  who  gave  him  his  broken  head,  the 

sniper  who  fired  the  shot. 

No  trumps  you  make  it,  I  think  you  said? 

You'll  pardon  me  if  I  err ; 
For  a  moment  I  thought  of  other  things.  .  .  . 

Mon  Dieiil     Quelle  vache  de  guerre. 


[123] 


PILGRIMS 


PILGRIMS 

For,  oh,  when  the  war  will  be  over 
We'll  go  and  we'll  look  for  our  dead; 
We'll   go  when  the  bee's   on  the   clover, 
And  the  plume  of  the  poppy  is  red : 
We'll  go  when  the  year's  at  its  gayest, 
When   meadows  are  laughing  with  flow'rs 
And  there  where  the  crosses  are  greyest. 
We'll  seek  for  the  cross  that  is  ours. 


For  they  cry  to  us :     Friends,  we  are  lonely, 

A-weary  the  night  and  the  day; 

But  come  in  the  blossom-time  only, 

Come  zvhen  our  graves  zvill  be  gay: 

IV hen  daffodils  all  are  a-blozving, 

And  larks  are  a-thrilling  the  skies. 

Oh,  come  zcith  the  hearts  of  yon  glowing, 

And  the  jo\  of  the  Spring  in  your  eyes. 

[124] 


PILGRIMS 


But  never,  oh,  never  come  sighing, 
For  ours  was  the  Splendid  Release; 
And  oh,  but  'twas  joy  in  the  dying 
To  know  we  were  winning  you  Peace! 
So  come  when  the  valleys  are  sheening. 
And  fledged  with  the  promise  of  grain; 
And  here  luhere  our  graves  will  be  greening, 
Just  smile  and  be  happy  again. 

And  so,  when  the  war  will  be  over, 
We'll  seek  for  the  Wonderful  One; 
And  maiden  will  look  for  her  lover, 
And  mother  will  look  for  her  son ; 
And  there  will  be  end  to  our  grieving, 
And  gladness  will  gleam  over  loss, 
As  —  glory  beyond  all  believing ! 
We  point  —  to  a  name  on  a  cross. 


[125] 


MY  PRISONER 


MY  PRISONER 

We  was  in  a  crump-'ole,  'im  and  me; 

Fightin*  wiv  our  bayonets  was  we; 

Fightin'  'ard  as  'ell  we  was, 

Fightin'  fierce  as  fire  because 

It  was  'im  or  me  as  must  be  downed 

'E  was  twice  as  big  as  me; 

I  was  'arf  the  weight  of  'e; 

We  was  like  a  terryer  and  a  'ound. 


'Struth!     But  'e  was  sich  a  'andsome  bloke. 

Me  —  Fm  'andsome  as  a  chunk  o'  coke. 

Did  I  give  it  'im?     Not  'arf! 

Why,  it  fairly  made  me  laugh, 

'Cos  'is  bloomin'  bellows  wasn't  sound, 

Couldn't  fight  for  monkey-nuts. 

Soon  I  gets  'im  in  the  guts, 

There  'e  lies  a-floppin'  on  the  ground. 

[126] 


MY  PRISONER 


In  I  goes  to  finish  up  the  job. 

Quick  'e  throws  'is  'ands  above  'is  nob; 

Speakin'   English  good  as   me: 

"  Tain't  no  use  to  kill,"  says  'e ; 

"Can't  yer  tyke  me  prisoner  instead?" 

"Why,  I'd  like  to,  sir,"  says  I; 

"  But  —  yer  knows  the  reason  why : 

If  we  pokes  our  noses  out  we're  dead. 

"  Sorry,  sir.     Then,  on  the  other  'and 

(As  a  gent  like  you  must  understand), 

If  I  'olds  you  longer  'ere, 

Wiv  yer  pals  so  werry  near, 

It's  me  'o'll  'ave  a  free  trip  to  Berlin; 

If  I  lets  yer  go  away, 

Why,  you'll  fight  another  day : 

See  the  sitooation  I  am  in. 


"  Anyway  I'll  tell  you  wot  I'll  do, 
Bein'  kind  and  seein'  as  it's  you, 
Knowin'  'ow  it's  cold,  the  feel 
Of  a  'alf  a  yard  o'  steel, 
I'll  let  yer  'ave  a  rifle  ball  instead; 
Now,  jist  think  yerself  in  luck.  .  .  . 

[127] 


MY  PRISONER 


'Ere,  ol'  man !     You  keep  'em  stuck, 
Them  saucy  dooks  o'  yours,  above  yer  'ead." 


'Ow  'is  mits  shot  up,  it  made  me  smile ! 
'Ow  'e  seemed  to  ponder  for  a  while. 
Then  'e  says :     "  It  seems  a  shyme. 
Me,  a  man  wot's  known  ter  Fyme : 
Give  me  blocks  of  stone,  I'll  give  yer  gods. 
Whereas,  pardon  me,  I'm  sure 
You,  my  friend,  are  still  obscure.  .  .  ." 
**  In   war,"   says   I,   "  that  makes   no  blurry 
odds." 


Then  says  'e :     "  I've  painted  picters  too.  .  .  . 
Oh,  dear  God  !     The  work  I  planned  to  do, 
And  to  think  this  is  the  end !  " 
"  'Ere,"  says  I,  "  my  hartist  friend, 
Don't  you  give  yerself  no  friskin'  airs. 
Picters,  statoos,  is  that  why 
You  should  be  let  off  to  die? 
That    the    best    ye    done?     Just    say    yer 
prayers." 

[128] 


MY  PRISOjfcR 


Once  again  'e  seems  ter  think  awhile, 
l^hen  'e  smiles  a  werry  'aughty  smile: 
"  Why,  no,  sir,  it's  not  the  best ; 
There's  a  locket  next  me  breast, 
Picter  of  a  gel  'oo's  eyes  are  blue. 
That's  the  best  I've  done,"  says  'e. 
"  That's  me  darter,  aged  three.  .  .  ." 
'*  Blimy !  "  says  I,  "  I've  a  nipper,  too." 

Straight  I  chucks  my  rifle  to  one  side; 

Shows  'im  wiv  a  lovin'  farther's  pride 

Me  own  little  Mary  Jane. 

Proud  'e  shows  me  'is  Elaine, 

And  we  talks  as  friendly  as  can  be ; 

Then  I  'elps  'im  on  'is  way, 

'Opes  'e's  sife  at  'ome  to-day. 

Wonders — 'oiu  zi'ould   'e  'ave   treated   mei 


[129] 


"ft^I-COLOUR 


TRI-COLOUR 

Poppies,  you  try  to  tell  me,  glowing  there 

in  the  wheat ; 
Poppies !     Ah     no !     You     mock    me :     It's 

blood,  I  tell  you,  it's  blood. 
It's  gleaming  wet  in  the  grasses,  it's  glist'- 

ning  warm  in  the  wheat ; 
It  dabbles  the  ferns  and  the  clover ;  it  brims 

in  an  angry  flood ; 
It  leaps  to  the  startled  heavens;  it  smothers 

the  sun ;  it  cries 
With   scarlet  voices   of  triumph   from  blos- 
som and  bough  and  blade. 
See  the  bright  horror  of  it !     It's  roaring  out 

of  the  skies, 
And  the  whole  red  world  is  a-welter.  .  .  . 

O  God!  I'm  afraid!     I'm  afraid! 

Cornflowers,  you  say,  just  cornflowers,  gem- 
ming the  golden  grain ; 

Ah  no !     You  can't  deceive  me.     Can't  I  be- 
lieve my  eyes? 

Look !     It's  the  dead,  my  comrades,  stark  on 
the  dreadful  plain, 
[130] 


TRI-COLOUR 


All  in  their  dark-blue  blouses,  staring  up  at 

the  skies. 
Comrades  of  canteen  laughter,  dumb  in  the 

yellow  wheat. 
See  how  they  sprawl  and  huddle !     See  how 

their  brows  are  white ! 
Goaded  on  to  the  shambles,  there  in  death 

and  defeat.  .  .  . 
Father  of  Pity,  hide  them!     Hasten,  O  God, 

Thy  night ! 

Lilies   (the  light  is  waning),  only  lilies  you 

say, 
Nestling  and  softly  shining  there  where  the 

spear-grass  waves. 
No,  my  friend,  I  know  better;  brighter  I  see 

than  day: 
It's  the  poor  little  wooden  crosses  over  their 

quiet  graves. 
Oh,  how  they're  gleaming,  gleaming!     See! 

Each  cross  has  a  crown. 
Yes,  it's  true  I  am  dying  —  little  will  be  the 

loss.  .  .  . 
Darkness  .  .  .  but  look !     In  Heaven,  a  light, 

and  it's  shining  down.  .  .  . 
God's  accolade!     Lift  me  up,  friends.     I'm 

going  to  win  —  m  v  Cross. 

[131] 


A  POT  OF  TEA 


A  POT  OF  TEA 

You  make  it  in  your  mess-tin  by  the  brazier's 

rosy  gleam ; 
You  watch  it  cloud,  then  settle  amber  clear; 
You  lift  it  with  your  bay'nit,  and  you  sniff 

the  fragrant  steam ; 
The  very  breath  of  it  is  ripe  with  cheer. 
You're  awful  cold  and  dirty,  and  a-cursing  of 

your  lot; 
You  scoff  the  blushin'  'alf  of  it,  so  rich  and 

ripping  'ot ; 
It  bucks  you  up  like  any  think,  just  seems 

to  touch  the  spot: 
God  bless  the  man   that  first   discovered 

Tea! 

Since  I  came  out  to  fight  in  France,  which 

ain't  the  other  day, 
I  think  I've  drunk  enough  to  float  a  barge ; 
All  kinds  of  fancy  foreign  dope,  from  caffy 

and  doo  lay, 


A  POT  OF  TEA 


To  rum  they  serves  you  out  before  a  charge. 

In   back  rooms  of   estaminays   I've  gurgled 
pints  of  cham; 

I've  swilled  down  mugs  of  cider  till  I've  felt 
a  bloomin'  dam ; 

But  'struth !  they  all  ain't  in  it  with  the  vint- 
age of  Assam: 
God  bless  the  man  that  first  invented  Tea ! 

I  think  them  lazy  lumps  o'  gods  wot  kips  on 
asphodel 

Swigs  nectar  that's  a  flavour  of  Oolong; 

I  only  wish  them  sons  o'  guns  a-grilling  down 
in  *ell 

Could  'ave  their  daily  ration  of  Suchong. 

Hurrah !     I'm  off  to  battle,  which  is  'ell  and 
'eaven  too ; 

And  if  I  don't  give  some  poor  bloke  a  sex- 
ton's job  to  do, 

To-night,  by  Fritz's  campfire,  won't  I  'ave  a 
gorgeous  brew 
(For  fightin'  mustn't  interfere  with  Tea). 

To-night  we'll  all  be  telling  of  the  Bodies 
that  we  slew, 
As  we  drink  the  giddy  victory  in  Tea. 

[133] 


THE  REVELATION 


THE  REVELATION 

The  same  old  sprint  in  the  morning,   boys, 

to  the  same  old  din  and  smut; 
Chained  all  day  to  the  same  old  desk,  dozvn 

in  the  same  old  rut; 
Posting  the  same  old  greasy  hooks,  catching 

the  same  old  train: 
Oh,  hoiv  zcill  I  manage  to  stick  it  all,  if  I  ever 

get  back  again? 


We've  bidden  good-bye   to  life   in   a   cage, 

we're  finished  with  pushing  a  pen; 
They're  pumping  us  full  of   bellicose   rage, 

they're  showing  us  how  to  be  men. 
We're  only  beginning  to  find  ourselves ;  we're 

wonders  of  brawn  and  thew; 
But  when  we  go  back  to  our  Sissy  jobs  — 

oh,  what  are  we  going  to  do  ? 

[134] 


THE  REVELATION 


For  shoulders  curved  with  the  counter  stoop 

will  be  carried  erect  and  square ; 
And   faces  white   from  the  office  light  will 

be  bronzed  by  the  open  air ; 
And  we'll  walk  with  the  stride  of  a  new-bom 

pride,  with  a  new-found  joy  in  our  eyes, 
Scornful   men   who   have   diced   with   death 

under  the  naked  skies. 


And  when  we  get  back  to  the  dreary  grind, 

and  the  bald-headed  boss's  call, 
Don't  you  think  that  the  dingy  window-blind, 

and  the  dingier  ofifice  wall, 
Will  suddenly  melt  to  a  vision  of  space,  of 

violent,  flame-scarred  night? 
Then  ...  oh   the   joy   of   the   danger-thrill, 

and  oh,  the  roar  of  the  fight! 


Don't  you  think  as  we  peddle  a  card  of 
pins  the  counter  will  fade  away, 

And  again  we'll  be  seeing  the  sand-bag  rims, 
and  the  barb-wire's  misty  grey? 

[13;] 


THE  REVELATION 


As  a  flat  voice  asks  for  a  pound  of  tea,  don't 

you  fancy  we'll  hear  instead 
The  night-wind  moan  and  the  soothing  drone 

of  the  packet  that's  overhead? 


Don't  you  guess  that  the  things  we're  seeing 

now  will  haunt  us  through/all  the  years ; 
Heaven  and  hell  rolled  into  one,  glory  and 

blood  and  tears; 
Life's  pattern  picked  with  a  scarlet  thread, 

where  once  we  wove  with  a  grey, 
To  remind  us  all  how  we  played  our  part  in 

the  shock  of  an  epic  day? 


Oh,  we're  booked  for  the  Great  Adventure 
now,  we're  pledged  to  the  Real  Ro- 
mance ; 

We'll  find  ourselves  or  we'll  lose  ourselves 
somewhere  in  giddy  old  France ; 

We'll  know  the  zest  of  the  fighter's  life;  the 
best  that  we  have  we'll  give ; 

We'll  hunger  and  thirst ;  we'll  die  .  .  .  but 
first  —  we'll  live  ;  by  the  Gods,  we'll  live  ! 
[i3^>] 


THE  REVELATION 


We'll  breathe  the  free  air  and  we'll  bivouac 

under  the  starry  sky ; 
We'll  march  with  men,  and  we'll  fight  with 

men,  and  we'll  see  men  laugh  and  die ; 
We'll  know  such  joy  as  we  never  dreamed ; 

we'll  fathom  the  deeps  of  pain : 
But  the  hardest  bit  of  it  all  will  be  —  when 

we  come  back  home  again. 

For  some  of  us  smirk  in  a  chiffon  shop,  and 

some  of  us  teach  in  a  schools- 
Some  of  tus  help  with  the  seat  of  our  pants  to 

polish  an  office  stool; 
The  merits  of  somebody's  soap  or  jam  some 

of  us  seek  to  explain, 
But  all  of  us  zvonder  zvhat  we'll  do  when  zee 

have  to  go  back  again. 


[137] 


GRAND-PERE 


GRAND-PERE 

And  so  when  he  reached  my  bed 
The  General  made  a  stand : 
"  My  brave  young  fellow,"  he  said, 
**  I  would  shake  your  hand." 

So  I  lifted  my  arm,  the  right, 
With  never  a  hand  at  all ; 
Only  a  stump,  a  sight 
Fit  to  appal. 

"  Well,  well.     Now  that's  too  bad ! 
That's  sorrowful  luck,"  he  said; 
"  But  there !     You  give  me,  my  lad. 
The  left  instead." 

So  from  under  the  blanket's  rim 
I  raised  and  showed  him  the  other, 
A  snag  as  ugly  and  grim 
As  its  ugly  brother. 
[•38] 


GRAND-PERE 


He  looked  at  each  jagged  wrist; 
He  looked,  but  he  did  not  speak ; 
And  then  he  bent  down  and  kissed 
Me  on  either  cheek. 

You  wonder  now  I  don't  mind 
I  hadn't  a  hand  to  offer.  .  .  . 
They  tell  me  (you  know  I'm  blind) 
'Twas  Grand-pcre  Joffre, 


[139] 


SON 


SON 

He  hurried  away,  young  heart  of  joy,  under 

our  Devon  sky! 
And  I  watched  him  go,  my  beautiful  boy,  and 

a  weary  woman  was  I. 
For  my  hair  is  grey,  and  his  was  gold ;  he'd 

the  best  of  his  life  to  live, 
And  I'd  loved  him  so,  and  I'm  old,  I'm  old; 

and  he's  all  I  had  to  give. 


Ah  yes,  he  was  proud  and  swift  and  gay,  but 

oh  how  my  eyes  were  dim ! 
With  the  sun  in  his  heart  he  went  away,  but 

he  took  the  sun  with  him. 
For  look !     How  the  leaves  are  falling  now, 

and  the  winter  won't  be  long.  .  .  . 
Oh  boy,  my  boy  with  the  sunny  brow,  and 

the  lips  of  love  and  of  song! 
[140] 


SON 


How  we  used  to  sit  at  the  day's  sweet  end, 
we  two  by  the  fireHght's  gleam, 

And  we'd  drift  to  the  \'alley  of  Let's  Pre- 
tend, on  the  beautiful  river  of  Dream. 

Oh  dear  little  heart!  All  wealth  untold 
would  I  gladly,  gladly  pay 

Could  I  just  for  a  moment  closely  hold  that 
golden  head  to  my  grey. 


For  I  gaze  in  the  fire,  and  I'm  seeing  there 

a  child,  and  he  waves  to  me ; 
And  I  run  and  I  hold  him  up  in  the  air,  and 

he  laughs  and  shouts  with  glee ; 
A  little  bundle  of   love  and  mirth,   crying: 

*'  Come,  ]\Iumsie  dear  !  " 
Ah  me!     If  he  called  from  the  ends  of  the 

earth  I  know  that  my  heart  would  hear. 


Yet  the  thought  comes  thrilling  through  all 
my  pain :  how  worthier  could  he  die  ? 

Yea,  a  loss  like  that  is  a  glorious  gain,  and 
pitiful  proud  am  I. 

[141] 


SON 

For  Peace  must  be  bought  with  blood  and 
tears,  and  the  boys  of  our  hearts  must 
pay; 

And  so  in  our  joy  of  the  after-years,  let  us 
bless  them  every  day. 

And  though  I  know  there's  a  hasty  grave 

with  a  poor  little  cross  at  its  head, 
And  the  gold  of  his  youth  he  so  gladly  gave, 

yet  to  me  he'll  never  be  dead. 
And  the  sun  in  my  Devon  lane  will  be  gay, 

and  my  boy  will  be  with  me  still, 
So  I'm  finding  the  heart  to  smile  and  say : 

"  Oh  God,  if  it  be  Thy  Will !  " 


[142] 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 

Humping  it  here  in  the  dug-out, 

Sucking  me  black  dudecn, 

I'd  like  to  say  in  a  general  way. 

There's  nothing  like  Nickyteen; 

There's  nothing  like  Nickyteen,  me  boys. 

Be  it  pipes  or  snipes  or  cigars; 

So  be  sure  that  a  bloke 

Has  plenty  to  smoke, 

If  you  zvants  him  to  fight  your  wars. 

When  I've  eat  my  fill  and  my  belt  is  snug, 
I  begin  to  think  of  my  baccy  plug. 
I  whittle  a  fill  in  my  horny  palm, 
And  the  bowl  of  me  old  clay  pipe  I  cram. 
I  trim  the  edges,  I  tamp  it  down, 
I  nurse  a  light  with  an  anxious  frown ; 
I  begin  to  draw,  and  my  cheeks  tuck  in. 
And  all  my  face  is  a  blissful  grin ; 
And  up  in  a  cloud  the  good  smoke  goes, 
And  the  good  pipe  glimmers  and  fades  and 
glows ; 

[143] 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 


In  its  throat  it  chuckles  a  cheery  song, 
For  I  Hkes  it  hot  and  I  Hkes  it  strong. 
Oh,   it's  good   is   grub  when  you're   feehng 

hollow, 
But  the  best  of  a  meal's  the  smoke  to  follow. 

There  was  Micky  and  me  on  a  night  patrol, 
Having  to  hide  in  a  fizz-bang  hole ; 
And  sure  I  thought  I  was  worse  than  dead 
Wi'   them   crump-crumps   hustlin'    over   me 

head. 
Sure  I  thought  'twas  the  dirty  spot, 
Hammer  and  tongs  till  the  air  was  hot. 
And  mind  you,  water  up  to  your  knees. 
And  cold !     A  monkey  of  brass  would  freeze. 
And  if  we  ventured  our  noses  out 
A  "  typewriter "   clattered  its  pills  about. 
The  Field  of  Glory!     Well,  I  don't  think! 
Fd  sooner  be  safe  and  snug  in  clink. 

Then  Micky,  he  goes  and  he  cops  one  bad, 
He  always  was  having  ill  luck,  poor  lad. 
Says  he :     "  Old  chummy,  Fm  booked  right 

through ; 
Death  and  me  'as  a  wrongday  voo. 
[1441 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 


But  .  .  .  'avn't  you  got  a  pinch  of  shag?  — 
I'd  sell  me  perishm'  soul  for  a  fag." 
And  there  he  shivered  and  cussed  his  luck, 
So  I  gave  him  me  old  black  pipe  to  suck. 
And  he  heaves  a  sigh,  and  he  takes  to  it 
Like  a  babby  takes  to  his  mammy's  tit ; 
Like  an  infant  takes  to  his  mother's  breast 
Poor  little  ]\Iicky!  he  went  to  rest. 

But  the  dawn  was  near,  though  the  night  was 

black, 
So  I  left  him  there  and  I  started  back. 
And  I  laughed  as  the  silly  old  bullets  came, 
For  the  bullet  ain't  made  wot's  got  me  name. 
Yet  some  of  'em  buzzed  onhealthily  near. 
And  one  little  blighter  just  chipped  me  ear. 
But  there !     I  got  to  the  trench  all  right, 
When  sudden  I  jumped  wi'  a  start  o'  fright, 
And  a  word  that  doesn'  look  well  in  type : 
I'd  clean  forgotten  me  old  clay  pipe. 

So  I  had  to  do  it  all  over  again, 

Crawling  out  on  that  filthy  plain. 

Through  shells  and  bombs  and  bullets  and 

all  — 
Only  this  time  —  I  do  not  crawl. 

[145] 


THE  BLACK  DUDEEN 


I  run  like  a  man  wot's  missing  a  train, 
Or  a  tom-cat  caught  in  a  plump  of  rain. 
I  hear  the  spit  of  a  quick-fire  gun 
Tickle  my  heels,  hut  I  run,  I  run. 
Through  crash  and  crackle,  and  flicker  and 

flame, 
(Oh,  the  packet  ain't  issued  wot's  got  me 

name!) 
I  run  like  a  man  that's  no  ideer 
Of  hunting  around  for  a  souveneer. 
I  run  bang  into  a  German  chap. 
And  he  stares  like  an  owl,  so  I  bash  his  map. 
And  just  to  show  him  that  I'm  his  boss, 
I  gives  him  a  kick  on  the  parados. 
And  I  marches  him  back  with  me  all  serene, 
With,  tucked  in  me  giib,  me  old  dudccn. 

Sitting  here  in  the  trenches 

Me  heart's  a-spUttin'  with  spleen, 

For  a  parcel  o'  lead  comes  missing  me  head, 

But  it  smashes  me  old  dudcen. 

God  blast  that  red-headed  sniper! 

ril  give  him  something  to  snipe; 

Before  the  war's  through 

Just  see  hozv  I  do 

That  blighter  that  smashed  me  pipe. 

[146] 


THE  LITTLE  PIOU-PIOU 


THE  LITTLE  PIOU-PIOU  * 

Oh,  some  of  us  lolled  in  the  chateau, 

And  some  of  us  slinked  in  the  slum ; 

But  now  we  are  here  with  a  song  and  a  cheer 

To  serve  at  the  sign  of  the  drum. 

They  put  us  in  trousers  of  scarlet. 

In  big  sloppy  ulsters  of  blue; 

In  boots  that  are  flat,  a  box  of  a  hat. 

And  they  call  us  the  little  piou-piou, 

Piou-piou, 
The  laughing  and  quaffing  piou-piou ; 
The  swinging  and  singing  piou-piou  ; 
And  so  with  a  rattle  we  march  to  the  battle. 
The  weary  but  cheery  piou-piou. 


Encore  iin  petit  z-crre  dc  z'in. 
Pour  nous  mcttre  en  route; 
Encore  un  petit  verre  de  vin 
Pour  nous  niettrc  en  train. 

*  The  French  "  Tommy." 

[147] 


THE  LITTLE  PIOU-PIOU 


They  drive  us  head-on  for  the  slaughter ; 

We  haven't  got  much  of  a  chance; 

The  issue  looks  bad,  but  we're  awfully  glad 

To  battle  and  die  for  La  France. 

For  some  must  be  killed,  that  is  certain; 

There's  only  one's  duty  to  do ; 

So  we  leap  to  the  fray  in  the  glorious  way 

They  expect  of  the  little  piou-piou. 

£n  avant! 
The  way  of  the  gallant  piou-piou ; 
The  dashing  and  smashing  piou-piou; 
The  way  grim  and  gory  that  leads  us  to  glory 
Is  the  way  of  the  little  piou-piou. 

Allans,  enfants  dc  la  Patrie, 
Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive. 

To-day  you  would  scarce  recognise  us, 

Such  veterans  war-wise  are  we ; 

So  grimy  and  hard,  so  calloused  and  scarred, 

So  ''  crummy,"  yet  gay  as  can  be. 

We've  finished  with  trousers  of  scarlet. 

They're  giving  us  breeches  of  blue, 

With  a  helmet  instead  of  a  cap  on  our  head, 

[148] 


THE  LITTLE  PIOU-PIOU 


Yet  still  we're  the  little  plou-piou. 

A^ous  les  aurons! 
The  jesting,  unresting  piou-piou ; 
The  cheering,  unfearing  piou-piou ; 
The  keep-your-head-level  and  fight-like-the- 

devil ; 
The  dying,  defying  piou-piou. 

A  la  hayonctte!     Jusqu'a  la  mort! 
Sonnez  la  charge,  clairons! 


[149] 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 

The    poppies     gleamed    like    bloody    pools 

through  cotton-woolly  mist ; 
The    Captain    kept    a-lookin'    at    the    watch 

upon  his  wrist ; 
And  there  we  smoked  and  squatted,  as  we 

watched  the  shrapnel  flame ; 
'Twas  wonnerful,   I'm  tellin'  you,  how   fast 

them  bullets  came. 
'Twas   weary   work  the   waiting,   though;   I 

tried  to  sleep  a  wink, 
For  waitin'  means  a-thinkin',  and  it  doesn't 

do  to  think. 
So  I   closed  my  eyes  a  little,  and  I  had  a 

niceish  dream 
Of  a-standin'  by  a  dresser  with  a   dish   of 

Devon  cream ; 
But  I  hadn't  time  to  sample  it,  for  sudden 

like  I  woke : 
"  Come  on,  me  lads !  "  the  Captain  says,  'n'  I 

climbed  out  through  the  smoke. 
[ISO] 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 


Wq  Spread  out  in  the  open :  it  was  like  a 

bath  of  lead ; 
But  the  boys  they  cheered  and  hollered  fit  to 

raise  the  bloody  dead, 
Till  a  beastly  bullet  copped  'em,  then  they 

lay  without  a  sound, 
And  it's  odd  —  we  didn't  seem  to  heed  them 

corpses  on  the  ground. 
And  I  kept  on  thinkin',  thinkin'  as  the  bullets 

faster  flew. 
How  they  picks  the  werry  best  men,  and  they 

lets  the  rotters  through  ; 
So  indiscriminatin'  like,  they  spares  a  man 

of  sin. 
And  a  rare  lad  wots  a  husband  and  a  father 

gets  done  in. 
And  while  havin'  these  reflections   and  ad- 

vancin'  on  the  run, 
A    bullet    biffs    me    shoulder,    and    says    I : 

"  That's  number  one." 

\\'ell,  it  downed  me  for  a  jiffy,  but  I  didn't 

lose  me  calm, 
For    I    knew    that    I    was    needed:     I'm    a 

bomber,  so  I  am. 

[151] 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 


I   'ad  lost  me  cap  and  rifle,  but  I  "  carried 

on  "  because 
I    'ad   me  bombs   and   knew   that  they   was 

needed,  so  they  was. 
We   didn't   'ave  no   singin'   now,  nor   many 

men  to  cheer; 
Maybe  the  shrapnel  drowned  'em,  crashing 

out  so  werry  near ; 
And  the  Maxims  got  us  sideways,  and  the 

bullets  faster  flew, 
And  I  copped  one  on  me  flipper,  and  says  I : 

"  That's  number  two." 


I  was  pleased  it  was  the  left  one,  for  I  'ad 
me  bombs,  ye  see, 

And  'twas  'ard  if  they'd  be  wasted  like,  and 
all  along  o'  me. 

And  I'd  lost  me  'at  and  rifle  —  but  I  told 
you  that  before. 

So  I  packed  me  mit  inside  me  coat  and  ''  car- 
ried on  "  once  more. 

But  the  rumpus  it  was  wicked,  and  the  men 
were  scarcer  yet, 

[152] 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 


And  I  felt  me  ginger  goin',  but  me  jaws  I 

kindo  set, 
And    we    passed    the  Boche    first    trenches, 

which  was  'eapin'  'igh  with  dead, 
And  we  started  for  their  second,  which  was 

fifty  feet  ahead ; 
When  something  Hke  a  'ammer  smashed  me 

savage  on  the  knee. 
And  down  I  came  all  muck  and  blood :     Says 

I :     "  That's  number  three." 


So  there  I  lay  all  'elpless  like,  and  bloody  sick 

at  that. 
And  worryin'  like  anythink,  because  I'd  lost 

me  'at; 
And  thinkin'  of  me  missis,  and  the  partin' 

words  she  said: 
"  If  you  gets  killed,  write  quick,  ol'  man,  and 

tell  me  as  you're  dead." 
And  lookin'  at  me  bunch  o'  bombs  —  that  was 

the  'ardest  blow. 
To  think  I'd  never  'ave  the  chance  to  'url 

them  at  the  foe. 

[153] 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 


And  there  was  all  our  boys  in  front,  a-fightin' 

there  like  mad, 
And  me  as  could  'ave  'elped  'em  wi'  the  lovely 

bombs  I  'ad. 
And   so   I    cussed   and   cussed,   and   tb.en    I 

struggled  back  again, 
Into  that  bit  of  battered  trench,  packed  solid 

with  its  slain. 


Now  as  I  lay  a-lyin'  there  and  blastin'  of 

me  lot. 
And  wishin'  I  could  just  dispose  of  all  them 

bombs  I'd  got, 
I  sees  within  the  doorway  of  a  shy,  retirin' 

dug-out 
Six  Boches  all  a-grinnin',  and  their  Captain 

stuck  'is  mug  out ; 
And   they    'ad   a   nice   machine  gun,   and   I 

twigged  what  they  was  at; 
And  they  fixed  it  on  a  tripod,  and  I  watched 

'em  like  a  cat ; 
And  they  got  it  in  position,  and  they  seemed 

so  werry  glad, 

[154] 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 


Like  they'd  got  us  in  a  death-trap,  which, 
condemn  their  souls !  they  'ad. 

For  there  our  boys  was  fightin'  fifty  yards  in 
front,  and  'ere 

This  lousy  bunch  of  Boches  they  'ad  got  us 
in  the  rear. 


Oh  it  set  me  blood  a-boilin'  and  I  quite  for- 
got me  pain, 
So  I  started  crawlin',  crawlin'  over  all  them 

mounds  of  slain ; 
And  them  barstards  was   so  busy-like  they 

'ad  no  eyes  for  me, 
And   me  bleedin'  leg  was   draggin',  but  me 

right  arm  it  was  free.  .  .  . 
And    now    they    'ave    it    all    in    shape,    and 

swingin'  sweet  and  clear ; 
And  now  they're  all  excited  like,  but  —  I  am 

drawin'  near; 
And  now  they  'ave  it  loaded  up,  and  now 

they're  takin'  aim.  .  .  . 
Rat-taf-tat-tat!     Oh  here,  says   I,  is  where 

I  join  the  game. 

[155] 


BILL  THE  BOMBER 


And  my  right  arm  it  goes  swingin',   and  a 

bomb  it  goes  a-slingin', 
And   that   ''  typewriter "   goes   wingin'   in   a 

thunderbolt  of  flame. 

Then  these  Boches,   wot  was  left  of  them, 

they  tumbled   down  their  'ole, 
And   up   I   climbed   a   mound  of   dead,   and 

down  on  them  I  stole. 
And  oh  that  blessed  moment  when  I  heard 

their   frightened  yell, 
And  I  laughed  down  in  that  dug-out,  ere  I 

bombed  their  souls  to  hell. 
And  now  I'm  in  the  hospital,  surprised  that 

I'm  alive; 
We  started  out  a  thousand  men,  we  came 

back  thirty-five. 
And  I'm  minus  of  a  trotter,  but  I'm  most 

amazin'  gay, 
For  me  bombs  they  wasn't  wasted,  though, 

you  might  say,  "  thrown  away." 


[156] 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY 
MC  GRAW 

You  may  talk  o'  your  lutes  and  your  dulci- 
mers fine, 

Your  harps  and  your  tabors  and  cymbals 
and  a', 

But  here  m  the  trenches  jist  gie  me  for  mine 

The  wee  penny  w^histle  o'  Sandy  McGravv. 

Oh  it's :  "  Sandy,  ma  lad,  will  you  lilt  us 
a  tune  ?  " 

And  Sandy  is  willin'  and  trillin'  like  mad ; 

Sae  silvery  sweet  that  we  a'  throng  aroun', 

And  some  o'  it's  gay,  but  the  maist  o'  it's  sad. 

Jist  the  wee  simple  airs  that  sink  intae  your 
hert. 

And  grup  ye  wi'  love  and  wi'  longin'  for 
hame  ; 

And  ye  glour  like  an  owl  till  you're  feelin' 
the   stert 

O'  a  tear,  and  you  blink  wi'  a  feelin'  o'  shame. 

[157] 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

For  his  song's  o'  the  heather,  and  here  in 

the  dirt 
You  listen  and  dream  o'   a  land  that's   sae 

braw, 
And  he  male's  you  forget  a'  the  harm  and  the 

hurt, 
For  he  pipes  like  a  laverock,  does  Sandy  i\Ic- 

'Graw. 


At  Eepers  I  mind  me  when  rank  upon  rank 
We  rose  from  the  trenches  and  swept  like 

the  gale, 
Till  the   rapid-fire  guns  got  us   fell  on  the 

flank 
And  the  murderin'  bullets  came  swishin'  like 

hail : 
Till  a'  that  were  left  o'  us  faltered  and  broke ; 
Till  it  seemed  for  a  moment  a  panicky  rout. 
When  shrill  through  the  fume  and  the  flash 

and  the  smoke 
The  wee  valiant  voice  o'  a  whistle  piped  out. 
The  Campbells  are  Comin  :     Then  into  the 

fray 
We  bounded  wi'  bayonets  reekin'  and  raw, 

[158] 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

And  oh  we  fair  revelled  in  glory  that  day, 
Jist  thanks  to  the  whistle  o'  Sandy  McGraw. 


At  Loose,  it  wis  after  a  sconnersome  fecht, 
On  the  field  o'  the  slain  I  wis  crawlin'  aboot, 
And  the  rockets  were  burnin'  red  holes  in 

the  nicht. 
And  the  guns  they  were  veciously  thimderin' 

oot, 
When  sudden  I  heard  a  bit  sound  like  a  sigh, 
And  there  in  a  crump-hole  a  kiltie  I  saw : 
"  Whit  ails  ye,  ma  lad  ?     Are  ye  woundit  ?  " 

says  I. 
"  I've    lost   ma    wee    whustle,"    says    Sandy 

McGraw. 
"  'Twas  oot  by  yon  bing  where  we  pressed 

the  attack. 
It  drapped  frae  ma  pooch,  and  between  noo 

and  dawn 
There  isna  much  time  so,  I'm  jist  crawlin' 

back.  .  .  ." 
"  Ye're  daft,  man !  "  I  telt  him,  but  Sandy 

wis  gone. 

[159] 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

Weel,  I   waited  a  wee,  then  I  crawled  oot 

masel, 
And   the   big    stuff    wis   gorin'    and    roarin' 

around, 
And  I  seemed  tae  be  under  the  oxter  o'  hell, 
And   Creation   wis   crackin'   tae  bits  by  the 

sound. 
And  I  says  in  ma  mind :     "  Gang  ye  back, 

ye  auld  f  ule  !  " 
When  I  thrilled  tae  a  note  that  wis  saucy 

and  sma'; 
And  there  in  a  crater,  collected  and  cool, 
Wi'  his  wee  penny  whistle  wis  Sandy  Mc- 

Graw. 
Aye,  there  he  wis  playin'  as  gleg  as  could  be, 
And  listenin'  hard  wis  a  spectacled  Boche ; 
Then  Sandy  turned  roon'  and  he  noddit  tae 

me, 
And  he  says :     "  Dinna  blab  on  me.  Sergeant 

McTosh. 
The  auld  chap  is  deein'.     He  likes  me  tae 

play. 
It's    makin'    him    happy.     Jist    see    his    een 

shine !  '* 
And  thrillin'  and  sweet  in  the  hert  o'  the  fray 

[160] 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

Wee  Sandy  wis  playin'  The  Watch  on  the 
Rhine. 


The  last  scene  o'  a'  — 'twas  the  day  that  we 

took 
That  bit  o'  black  ruin  they  ca'  Labbiesell. 
It  seemed  the  hale  hillside  jist  shivered  and 

shook, 
And  the  red  skies  were  roarin'  and  spewin' 

oot  shell. 
And  the  Sergeants  were  cursin'  tae  keep  us 

in  hand, 
And  hard  on  the  leash  we  were  strainin'  like 

dugs, 
When  upward  we  shot  at  the  word  o'  com- 
mand. 
And  the  bullets  were  dingin'  their  songs  in  oor 

lugs. 
And  onward  we  swept  wi'  a  yell  and  a  cheer, 
And  a'  wis  destruction,  confusion  and  din, 
And  we  knew  that  the  trench  o'  the  Boches 

wis  near. 
And  it  seemed  jist  the  safest  bit  hole  tae  be 

in. 

[i6i] 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

So  we  a'  tumbled  doon,  and  the  Bodies  were 

there. 
And  they  held  up  their  hands,  and  they  yelled : 

''  Kamarad !  " 
And  I  marched  aff  wi'  ten,  wi'  their  palms 

in  the  air. 
And  my !     I  wis  prood-like,  and  my !     I  wis 

glad. 
And  I  thocht:  if  ma  lassie  could  see  me  jist 

then.  .  .  . 
When  sudden  I  sobered  at  somethin'  I  saw, 
And  I  stopped  and  I  stared,  and  I  halted  ma 

men. 
For  there  on  a  stretcher  wis  Sandy  AIcGraw. 

Weel,  he  looks  in  ma  face,  jist  as  game  as  ye 
please : 

**  Ye  ken  hoo  I  hate  tae  be  workin',"  says  he ; 

"  But  noo  I  can  play  in  the  street  for  baw- 
bees, 

Wi'  baith  o'  ma  legs  taken  afT  at  the  knee." 

And   though   I   could   see  he   wis   rackit   wi 
pain, 

He  reached   for  his  whistle  and  stertit  tae 
play, 

[162] 


THE  WHISTLE  OF  SANDY  MC  GRAW 

And  quaverin*  sweet  wis  the  pensive  refrain : 
''  The  Hoors  o'  the  forest  are  a'  wede  away." 
Then  sudden  he  stoppit :     *'  Man,  wis  it  no 

grand 
Hoo  we   took   a'   they  trenches  ? "...  He 

shakit  his  heid.  .  .  . 
"  ril  —  no  —  play  —  nae  —  mair "     fee- 
bly doon  frae  his  hand 
Slipped    the    wee    penny    whistle    and  .  .  . 
Sandy  ivis  deid. 


And  so  you  may  talk  o'  your  Steinways  and 

Strads, 
Your    wunnerful    organs    and    brasses    sae 

braw ; 
But  oot  in  the  trenches  jist  gie  me,  ma  lads, 
Yon  wee  penny  whistle  o'  Sandy  McGraw. 


[163] 


THE  STRETCHER-BEARER 


THE  STRETCHER-BEARER 

My  stretcher  is  one  scarlet  stain, 
And  as  I  tries  to  scrape  it  clean, 
I  tell  you  wot  —  I'm  sick  with  pain 
For  all  I've  'eard,  for  all  I've  seen; 
Around  me  is  the  'ellish  night. 
And  as  the  war's  red  rim  I  trace, 
I  wonder  if  in  'eaven's  height 
Our  God  don't  turn  away  'Is  Face. 

I  don't  care  'ose  the  Crime  may  be; 

I  holds  no  brief  fer  kin  or  clan ; 

I  'ymns  no  'ate :  I  only  see 

As  man  destroys  his  brother  man; 

I  waves  no  flag ;  I  only  know, 

As  'ere  beside  the  dead  I  wait, 

A  million  'earts  is  weighed  with  woe, 

A  million  'omes  is  desolate. 

In  dripping  darkness,  far  and  near. 
All  night  I've  sought  them  woeful  ones. 
Dawn  shudders  up  and  still  I  'ear 

[164] 


THE  STRETCHER-BEARER 


The  crimson  chorus  of  the  guns. 
Look !  like  a  ball  of  blood  the  sun 
'Angs     o'er     the     scene     of     wrath     and 

wrong.  .  .  . 
"  Quick  !     Stretcher-bearers  on  the  run  !  " 
0  Prince  of  Peace!     'Ow  long,  'oiv  long? 


[i6s] 


WOUNDED 


WOUNDED 

Is  it  not  strange?    A  year  ago  to-day, 
With  scarce  a  thought  beyond  the  hum-drum 

round, 
I  did  my  decent  job  and  earned  my  pay; 
Was  averagely  happy,  I'll  be  bound. 
Aye,  in  my  little  groove  I  was  content, 
Seeing  my  life  run  smoothly  to  the  end, 
With  prosy  days  in  stolid  labour  spent. 
And  jolly  nights,  a  pipe,  a  glass,  a  friend. 
In  God's  good  time  a  hearth-fire's  cosy  gleam, 
A  wife  and  kids,  and  all  a  fellow  needs ; 
When  presto!  like  a  bubble  goes  my  dream: 
I  leap  upon  the  Stage  of  Splendid  Deeds. 
I  yell  with  rage ;  I  wallow  deep  in  gore : 
I,  that  was  clerk  in  a  drysalter's  store. 

Stranger  than  any  book  I've  ever  read. 

Here  on  the  reeking  battlefield  I  lie, 

Under  the   stars,   propped   up   with   smeary 

dead. 
Like  too,  if  no  one  takes  me  in,  to  die. 
[i66] 


WOUNDED 


Hit  on  the  arms,  legs,  liver,  lungs  and  gall ; 
Damn  glad  there's  nothing  more  of  me  to 

hit; 
But  calm,  and  feeling  never  pain  at  all. 
And  full  of  wonder  at  the  turn  of  it. 
For  of  the  dead  around  me  three  are  mine, 
Three    foemen   vanquished   in   the   whirl   of 

fight; 
So  if  I  die  I  have  no  right  to  whine, 
I  feel  I've  done  my  little  bit  all  right. 
I   don't  know  how  —  but  there  the  beggars 

are, 
As  dead  as  herrings  pickled  in  a  jar. 

And    here    am    I,    worse    wounded    than    I 

thought ; 
For  in  the  fight  a  bullet  bee-like  stings ; 
You  never  heed ;  the  air  is  metal-hot. 
And  all  alive  with  little  flicking  wings. 
But  on  you  charge.     You  see  the  fellows  fall ; 
Your  pal  was  by  your  side,  fair  fighting-mad ; 
You  turn  to  him,  and  lo !  no  pal  at  all ; 
You  wonder  vaguely  if  he's  copped  it  bad. 
But    on    you    charge.     The    heavens    vomit 

death ; 

[167] 


WOUNDED 


And  vicious  death  is  besoming  the  ground. 
You're  bhnd  with  sweat ;  you're  dazed,  and 

out  of  breath, 
And   though   you   yell,   you    cannot    hear   a 

sound. 
But  on  you  charge.     Oh,  War's  a  rousing 

game! 
Around  you  smoky  clouds  like  ogres  tower  ; 
The  earth  is   rowelled  deep  with  spurs  of 

flame, 
And  on  your  helmet  stones  and  ashes  shower. 
But  on  you  charge.     It's  odd !     You  have  no 

fear. 
Machine-gun  bullets  whip  and  lash  your  path  ; 
Red,  yellow,  black  the  smoky  giants  rear ; 
The  shrapnel  rips,  the  heavens  roar  in  wrath. 
But  on  you  charge.     Barbed  wire  all  tram- 
pled down; 
The  ground  all  gored  and  rent  as  by  a  blast ; 
Grim  heaps  of  grey  where  once  were  heaps  of 

brown ; 
A  ragged  ditch,  the  Hun  first  line  at  last. 
All    smashed    to    hell.     Their    second    right 

ahead, 

[i68] 


WOUNDED 


So  on  yoii  charge.  There's  nothing  else  to 
do. 

More  reeking  holes,  blood,  barbed  wire,  grue- 
some  dead 

(Your  puttee  strap's  undone  —  that  worries 
you). 

You  glare  around.  You  think  you're  all 
alone. 

But  no;  your  chums  come  surging  left  and 
right. 

The  nearest  chap  flops  down  without  a  groan, 

His  face  still  snarling  with  the  rage  of  fight. 

Ha!  here's  the  second  trench  —  just  hke  the 
first, 

Only  a  little  more  so,  more  "  laid  out  " ; 

^lore  pounded,  flame-corroded,  death-ac- 
curst ; 

A  pretty  piece  of  work,  beyond  a  doubt. 

Now  for  the  third,  and  there  your  job  is  done, 

So  on  you  charge.     You  never  stop  to  think. 

Your  cursed  puttee's  trailing  as  you  run ; 

You  feel  you'd  sell  your  soul  to  have  a  drink. 

The  acrid  air  is  full  of  cracking  whips. 

You  wonder  how  it  is  you're  going  still. 

[169] 


WOUNDED 


You    foam    with    rage.     O    God!    to    be    at 

grips 
With  someone  you  can  rush  and  crush  and 

kill. 
Your  sleeve  is  dripping  blood;  you're  seeing 

red ; 
You're    battle-mad ;    your    turn    is    coming 

now. 
See!  there's  the  jagged  barbed  wire  straight 

ahead, 
And  there's  the  trench  —  you'll  get  there  any- 
how. 
Your  puttee  catches  on  a  strand  of  wire, 
And   down   you   go ;   perhaps   it   saves   your 

Hfe, 
For  over  sandbag  rims  you  see  'em  fire, 
Crop-headed   chaps,   their   eyes   ablaze   with 

strife. 
You  crawl,  you  cower ;  then  once  again  you 

plunge 
With    all    your    comrades    roaring    at    your 

heels. 
Have  at  'em,  lads!     You  stab,  you  jab,  you 

lunge ; 
A  blaze  of  glory,  then  the  red  world  reels. 
[i7ol 


WOUNDED 


A  crash  of  triumph,  then  .  .  .    you're  faint  a 

bit  .  .  . 
That  cursed  puttee !     Xow  to  fasten  it.  .  .  . 

Well,  that's  the  charge.     And  now  I'm  here 

alone. 
I've  built  a  little  wall  of  Hun  on  Hun, 
To  shield  me  from  the  leaden  bees  that  drone 
( It  saves  me  worry,  and  it  hurts  'em  none). 
The  only  thing  I'm  wondering  is  when 
Some  stretcher-men  will  stroll  along  my  way  ? 
It  isn't  much  that's  left  of  me,  but  then 
Where  life  is,  hope  is,  so  at  least  they  say. 
Well,  if  I'm  spared  I'll  be  the  happy  lad. 
I   tell  you   I  won't  envy  any  king. 
I've   stood   the   racket,   and   I'm  proud   and 

glad; 
I've  had  my  crowning  hour.     Oh,  War's  the 

thing ! 
It    gives    us    common,    working    chaps    our 

chance, 
A  taste  of  glory,  chivalry,  romance. 

Aye,  \War,  they  say,  is  hell ;  it's  heaven,  too. 
It  lets  a  man  discover  what  he's  worth. 


WOUNDED 


It  takes  his  measure,  shows  what  he  can  do, 
Gives  him  a  joy  like  nothing  else  on  earth. 
It  fans  in  him  a  flame  that  otherwise 
Would    flicker    out,    these    drab,    discordant 

days; 
It  teaches  him  in  pain  and  sacrifice 
Faith,  fortitude,  grim  courage  past  all  praise. 
Yes,  War  is  good.     So  here  beside  my  slain, 
A  happy  wreck  I  wait  amid  the  din ; 
For  even  if  I  perish  mine's  the  gain.  .  .  . 
Hi  there,  you  fellows!     Won't  you  take  me 

in? 
Give  me  a  fag  to  smoke  upon  the  way.  .  .  . 
We've  taken  La  Boiselle !     The  hell,  you  say ! 
Well,  that  would  make  a  corpse  sit  up  and 

grin. 
Lead  on !     I'll  live  to  fight  another  day. 


[172] 


FAITH 


FAITH 

Since  all  that  is  was  ever  bound  to  be  ; 
Since  grim,  eternal  laws  our  Being  bind ; 
And  both  the  riddle  and  the  answer  find, 
And  both  the  carnage  and  the  calm  decree ; 
Since  plain  within  the  Book  of  Destiny 
Is  written  all  the  journey  of  mankind 
Inexorably  to  the  end ;  since  blind 
And  mortal  puppets  playing  parts  are  we : 

Then  let's  have  faith ;  good  cometh  out  of  ill ; 
The  power  that  shaped  the  strife  shall  end  the 

strife  ; 
Then  let's  bow  down  before  the  Unknown 

Will ; 
Fight  on,  believing  all  is  well  with  life; 
Seeing  within  the  worst  of  Wear's  red  rage 
The  gleam,  the  glory  of  the  Golden  Age. 


[173] 


THE  COWARD 


THE  COWARD 

'Ave  you  seen  Bill's  mug  in  the  Noos  to-day  ? 
'E's  gyned  the  \'ictoriar  Cross,  they  say ; 
Little  Bill  wot  would  grizzle  and  run  away, 

If  you  'it  'im  a  swipe  on  the  jawr. 
'E's  slaughtered  the  Kaiser's  men  in  tons ; 
'E's  captured  one  of  their  quick-fire  guns, 
And  'e  'adn't  no  practice  in  killin'  'Uns 

Afore  'e  went  off  to  the  war. 

Little  Bill  wot  I  nussed  in  'is  byby  clothes ; 
Little  Bill  wot  told  me  'is  childish  woes ; 
'Ow  often  I've  tidied  'is  pore  little  nose 

Wiv  the  'em  of  me  pinnyfore. 
And  now  all  the  papers  'is  praises  ring, 
And  'e's  been  and  'e's  shaken  the  'and  of  the 

King 
And   I   sawr   'im  to-day   in   the   ward,  pore 
thing. 

Where  they're  patching  'im  up  once  more. 

And  'e  says :     ''  Wot  d'ye  think  of  it,  Lizer 
Ann?" 

[174] 


THE  COWARD 


And  I  says :     "  Well,  I  can't  make  it  out,  old 

man; 
You'd  ook  it  as  soon  as  a  scrap  began, 

When  you  was  a  bit  of  a  kid." 
And  'e  whispers :     ''  'Ere,  on  the  quiet,  Liz, 
They're  makin'  too  much  of  the  'ole  damn  biz, 
And  the  papers  is  printin'  me  ugly  phiz, 

Eut  .  .  .  I'm  'anged  if  I  know  wot  I  did. 

"  Oh,  the  Captain  comes  and  'e  says :     '  Look 

'ere! 
They're  far  too  quiet  out  there :  it's  queer. 
They're  up  to  somethin' — 'oo'U  volunteer 

To  crawl  in  the  dark  and  see  ? ' 
Then  I  felt  me  'eart  like  a  'ammer  go. 
And  up  jumps  a  chap  and  'e  says :  '  Right  O  !  * 
But  I  chips  in  straight,  and  I  says  '  Oh  no ! 

'E's  a  missis  and  kids  —  take  me/ 

"  And  the  next  I  knew  I  was  sneakin'  out, 
And  the  oozy  corpses  was  all  about, 
And  I  felt  so  scared  I  wanted  to  shout. 
And  me  skin  fair  prickled  wiv  fear ; 
And  I  sez  :     '  You  coward  !     You  'ad  no  right 
To  take  on  the  job  of  a  man  this  night,' 

[175] 


THE  COWARD 


Yet  still  I  went  creepin'  till  ('orrid  sight!) 
The  trench  of  the  'Uns  was  near. 

''  It  was  all  so  dark,  it  was  all  so  still ; 
Yet  somethin'  pushed  me  against  me  will ; 
'Ow  I  wanted  to  turn !     Yet  I  crawled  until 

I   was   seein'   a   dim  light  shine. 
Then  thinks  I :     *  I'll  just  go  a  little  bit, 
And  see  wot  the  doose  I  can  make  of  it,' 
And  it  seemed  to  come  from  the  mouth  of  a 
pit: 

*  Christmas ! '  sez  I,  *  a  mine.' 

"  Then  'ere's  the  part  wot  I  can't  explain : 

I  wanted  to  make  for  'ome  again, 

But  somethin'  was  blazin'  inside  me  brain, 

So  I  crawled  to  the  trench  instead; 
Then  I  saw  the  bullet  'ead  of  a  'Un, 
And  'e  stood  by  a  rapid-firer  gim. 
And  I  lifted  a  rock  and  I  'it  'im  one, 

And  'e  dropped  like  a  chunk  o'  lead. 

"  Then  all  the  'Uns  that  was  underground, 
Comes  up  with  a  rush  and  on  with  a  bound, 
And  I  swings  that  giddy  old  Maxim  round 
And  belts  'em  solid  and  square. 
['76] 


THE  COWARD 


You  see  I  was  off  me  chump  wiv  fear : 
'  If  I'm  sellin'  me  life,'  sez  I,  *  it's  dear.' 
And  the  trench  was  narrow  and  they  was 
near, 
So  I  peppered  the  brutes  for  fair. 

*'  So  I  'eld  'em  back  and  I  yelled  with  fright, 
And  the  boys  attacked  and  we  ad  a  fight, 
And  we  '  captured  a  section  o'  trench '  that 
night 

Which  we  didn't  expect  to  get ; 
And  they  found  me  there  with  me  ]\Iaxim 

gun, 
And  I'd  laid  out  a  score  if  I'd  laid  out  one, 
And  I  fainted  away  when  the  thing  was  done, 

And  I  'aven't  got  over  it  yet." 

So  that's  the  'istory  Bill  told  me. 
Of  course  it's  all  on  the  strict  Q.T. ; 
It  wouldn't  do  to  get  out,  you  see, 

As  'e  hacted  against  'is  will. 
But  'e's  convalescin'  wiv  all  'is  might, 
And  'e  'opes  to  be  fit  for  another  fight  — 
Say !     Ain't  'e  a  bit  of  the  real  all  right? 

Wot's  the  matter  with  Bill ! 


MISSIS  MORIARTVS  BOY 


MISSIS  MORIARTY'S  BOY 

Missis  Moriarty  called  last  week,  and  says 

she  to  me,  says  she: 
"  Sure    the    heart    of    me's    broken    entirely 

now  —  it's  the  fortunate  woman  you  are ; 
You've  still  got  your  Dinnis  to  cheer  up  your 

home,  but  me  Patsy  boy  where  is  he  ? 
Lyin'  alone,  cold  as  a  stone,  kilt  in  the  weari- 
ful wahr. 
Oh,  I'm  seein'  him  now  as  I  looked  on  him 

last,  wid  his  hair  all  curly  and  bright, 
And  the  wonderful,  tenderful  heart  he  had, 

and  his  eyes  as  he  wint  away, 
Shinin'   and  lookin'   down  on  me   from  the 

pride  of  his  proper  height : 
Sure  I'll  remember  me  boy  like  that  if  I  live 

till  me  dyin'  day." 

And  just  as  she  spoke  these  very  same  words 
me  Dinnis  came  in  at  the  door. 

Came  in  from  McGonigle's  ould  shcl:)een, 
came  in  from  drinkin'  his  pay ; 

[178] 


MISSIS  MORIARTY'S  BOY 


And  ^lissis  Moriarty  looked  at  him,  ;^,nd  she 

didn't  say  anny  more, 
But  she  wrapped  her  head  ^'n  hei  ould  black 

shawl,  and  she  quietly  wint  away. 
And  what  was  I  thinkin' ;  I  ask  ye  now,  as  1 

put  me  Dinnis  to  bed, 
Wid  him  ravin'  and  cursin'  one  half  o'  the 

night,  as  cold  by  his  side  I  sat ; 
Was   I   thinkin'   the   poor   ould   woman   she 

was    wid    her    Patsy    slaughtered    and 

dead? 
Was  I  weepin'  for  Missis  ^loriarty?     I'm  not 

so  sure  about  that. 


Missis  Moriarty  goes  about  wid  a  shinin'  look 

on  her  face ; 
Wid   her   grey   hair   under   her   ould   black 

shawl,  and  the  eyes  of  her  mother-mild ; 
Some  say  she's  a  little  bit  off  her  head;  but 

annyway  it's  the  case 
Her    temper's    so    swate    that    you    nivver 

would    tell    she'd    be    losin'    her    only 

child. 

[179] 


MISSIS  MORIARTY'S  BOY 


And  I  think,  as  I  wait  up  ivery  night  for  me 

Dinnis  to  come  home  blind, 
And   I'm   hearin'  his   stumbHn'   foot  on  the 

stair  along  about  half-past  three : 
Sure,  there's  many  a  way  of  breakin'  a  heart, 

and  I  haven't  made  up  me  mind  — 
Would  I  be  Missis  Moriarty,  or  Missis  Mo- 

riarty  me? 


[i8o] 


MY  FOE 


MY  FOE 

A  Belgian  Priest-Soldier  Speaks:  — 

Gurr!     You  cochon!     Stand  and  fight! 
Show  your  mettle  !     Snarl  and  bite  ! 
Spawn  of  an  accursed  race, 
Turn  and  meet  me  face  to  face ! 
Here  amid  the  wreck  and  rout 
Let  us  grip  and  have  it  out ! 
Here  where  ruins  rock  and  reel 
Let  us  settle,  steel  to  steel. 
Look  !     Our  houses,  how  they  spit 
Sparks  from  brands  your  friends  have  lit. 
See !     Our  gutters  running  red, 
Bright  with  blood  your  friends  have  shed. 
Hark !     Amid  your  drunken  brawl 
How  our  maidens  shriek  and  call. 
Why  have  you  come  here  alone, 
To  this  hearth's  blood-spattered  stone? 
Come  to  ravish,  come  to  loot, 
Come  to  play  the  ghoulish  brute. 
[i8i] 


MY  FOE 


Ah,  indeed !     We  well  are  met, 
Bayonet  to  bayonet. 
God!     I  never  killed  a  man: 
Now  I'll  do  the  best  I  can. 
Rip  you  to  the  evil  heart, 
Laugh  to  see  the  life-blood  start. 
Bah  !     You  swine  !     I  hate  you  so. 
Show  you  mercy  ?     No  !  .  .  .  and  no  ! 

There  !     I've  done  it.     See  !     He  lies 
Death  a-staring  from  his  eyes ; 
Glazing  eyeballs,  panting  breath. 
How  it's  horrible,  is  Death ! 
Plucking  at  his  bloody  lips 
With  his  trembling  finger-tips : 
Choking  in  a  dreadful  way 
As  if  he  would  something  say 
In  that  uncouth  tongue  of  his.  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  horrible  Death  is ! 

How  I  wish  that  he  would  die ! 
So  unnerved,  unmanned  am  I. 
See  !     His  twitching  face  is  white ! 
See !     His  bubbling  blood  is  bright. 

[.82] 


MY  FOE 


Why  do  I  not  shout  with  glee  ? 
What  strange  spell  is  over  me  ? 
There  he  lies ;  the  fight  was  fair ; 
Let  me  toss  my  cap  in  air. 
Why  am  I  so  silent?     Why 
Do  I  pray  for  him  to  die  ? 
W'here  is  all  my  vengeful  joy? 
Ugh !     My  foe  is  hut  a  hoy. 

I'd  a  brother  of  his  age 
Perished  in  the  war's  red  rage; 
Perished  in  the  Ypres  hell ; 
Oh,  I  loved  my  brother  well. 
And  though  I  be  hard  and  grim, 
How  it  makes  me  think  of  him ! 
He  had  just  such  flaxen  hair 
As  the  lad  that's  lying  there. 
Just  such  frank  blue  eyes  were  his. 
God !     How  horrible  war  is ! 


I  have  reason  to  be  gay : 
There  is  one  less  foe  to  slay. 
I  have  reason  to  be  glad : 
Yet  —  mv  foe  is  such  a  lad. 

[183] 


MY  FOE 


So  I  watch  in  dull  amaze, 

See  his  dying  eyes  a-glaze, 

See  his  face  grow  glorified, 

See  his  hands  outstretched  and  wide 

To  that  bit  of  ruined  wall 

Where  the  flames  have  ceased  to  crawl. 

Where  amid  the  crumbling  bricks 

Hangs  a  blackened  crucifix. 

Now,  oh  now  I  understand. 
Quick  I  press  it  in  his  hand. 
Close  his  feeble  finger-tips, 
Hold  it  to  his  faltering  lips. 
As  I  watch  his  welling  blood 
I  would  stem  it  if  I  could. 
God  of  Pity,  let  him  live ! 
God  of  Love,  forgive,  forgive. 

'T*  'K  'j^  't^  ^  I^C 

His  face  looked  strangely,  as  he  died. 

Like  that  of  One  they  crucified. 

And  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat 

I  found  a  letter ;  thus  he  wrote : 

The  things  I've  seen!     Oh  mother,  dear, 

I'm  ivondering  can  God  he  here? 

[184] 


MY  FOE 


To-night  amid  the  drunken  brawl 
I  saw  a  Cross  hung  on  a  wall; 
I'll  seek  it  out,  and  there  alone 
Perhaps  I  may  atone,  atone.  .  .  . 

Ah  no !     'Tis  I  who  must  atone. 
No  other  saw  but  God  alone; 
Yet  how  can  I  forget  the  sight 
Of  that  face  so  woeful  white? 
Dead  I  kissed  him  as  he  lay, 
Knelt  by  him  and  tried  to  pray; 
Left  him  lying  there  at  rest, 
Crucifix  upon  his  breast. 

Not  for  him  the  pity  be. 
Ye  who  pity,  pity  me, 
Crawling  now  the  ways  I  trod, 
Blood-guilty  in  sight  of  God. 


[I8S] 


MY  JOB 


MY  JOB 

I've  got  a  little  job  on  'and,  the  time  is  drawin' 

nigh ; 
At  seven  by  the  Captain's  watch  I'm  due  to 

go  and  do  it ; 
I  wants  to  'ave  it  nice  and  neat,  and  pleasin' 

to  the  eye, 
And  I  'opes  the  God  of  soldier  men  '11  see  me 

safely  through  it. 
Because,  you  see,  it's  somethin'  I  'ave  never 

done  before ; 
And   till   you   'as   experience   noo   stunts   is 

always  tryin' ; 
The  chances  is  I'll  never  'ave  to  do  it  any 

more: 
At  seven  by  the  Captain's  watch  my  little  job 

is  .  .  .  dyin\ 

I've  got  a  little  note  to  write;  I'd  best  begin 

it  now. 
J  ain't  much  good  at  writin'  notes,  but  here 

goes  :     "  Dearest  Mother, 
[186] 


MY  JOB 


I've  been  in  many  'ot  old  '  do's  ' ;  I've  scraped 

through  safe  some'ow, 
But  now  I'm  on  the  very  point  of  tacklin' 

another. 
A  little  job  of  hand-grenades;  they  called  for 

volunteers. 
They   picked   me   out;   I'm   proud  of   it;   it 

seems  a  trifle  dicky. 
If   anythin'   should  'appen,  well,  there  ain't 

no  call  for  tears, 
And  so  ...  I  'opes  this  finds  you  well,  Your 

werry  lovin'  Micky." 

I've  got  a  little  score  to  settle  wiv  them  swine, 

out  there. 
I've  'ad  so  many  of  me  pals  done  in  it's  quite 

upset  me. 
I've  seen  so  much  of  bloody  death  I  don't 

seem  for  to  care, 
If  I  can  only  even  up,  how  soon  the  blighters 

get  me. 
I'm  sorry  for  them  perishers  that  corpses  in 

a  bed ; 
I  only  'opes  mine's  short  and  sweet,  no  linger- 

longer-lyin' ; 

[187] 


MY  JOB 


I've  made  a  mess  of  life,  but  now  I'll  try  to 

make  instead  .  .  . 
It's  seven  sharp.     Good-bye,  old  pals !  .  .  . 

a  decent  job  in  dyin'. 


[i88] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PACIFIST 


THE  SONG  OF  THE 
PACIFIST 

What  do  they  matter,  our  headlong  hates, 
when  we  take  the  toll  of  our  Dead? 

Think  ye  our  glory  and  gain  will  pay  for  the 
torrent  of  blood  we  have  shed? 

By  the  cheers  of  our  Victory  will  the  heart 
of  the  mother  be  comforted? 

If  by  the  \'ictory  all  we  mean  is  a  broken  and 

brooding  foe ; 
Is  the  pomp  and  power  of  a  glitt'ring  hour, 

and  a  truce  for  an  age  or  so : 
By  the  clay-cold  hand  on  the  broken  blade  we 

have  smitten  a  bootless  blow ! 


If  by  the  Triumph  we  only  prove  that  the 

sword  we  sheathe  is  bright ; 
That  justice  and  truth  and  love  endure ;  that 

freedom's  throned  on  the  height ; 

[189] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PACIFIST 

That  the  feebler  folks  shall  be  unafraid ;  that 
JMight  shall  never  be  Right; 

If  this  be  all:  by  the  blood-drenched  plains, 
by  the  havoc  of  fire  and  fear, 

By  the  rending  roar  of  the  War  of  Wars,  by 
the  Dead  so  doubly  dear,  .  .  . 

Then  our  Victory  is  a  vast  defeat,  and  it 
mocks  us  as  we  cheer. 


\^ictory !  there  can  be  but  one,  hallowed  in 

every  land : 
When  by  the  graves  of  our  common  dead  we 

who  were  f ocmen  stand ; 
And  in  the  hush  of  our  common  grief  hand 

is  tendered  to  hand. 


Triumph!     Yes,  when  out  of  the  dust  in  the 

splendour  of  their  release 
The  spirits  of  those  who  fell  go  forth  and 

they  hallow  our  hearts  to  peace, 
And,  brothers  in  pain,  with  world-wide  voice, 

we  clamour  that  War  shall  cease. 
[190] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PACIFIST 

Glory !     Aye,  when  from  blackest  loss  shall 

be  born  most  radiant  gain ; 
When  over  the  gory  fields  shall  rise  a  star 

that  never  shall  wane : 
Then,  and  then  only,  our  Dead  shall  know 

that  they  have  not  fall'n  in  vain. 

When  our  children's  children  shall  talk  of 
War  as  a  madness  that  may  not  be ; 

When  we  thank  our  God  for  our  grief  to-day, 
and  blazon  from  sea  to  sea 

In  the  name  of  the  Dead  the  banner  of  Peace 
.  .  .  that  will  be  Victory, 


[191] 


THE  TWINS 


THE  TWINS 

There  were  two  brothers,  John  and  James, 
And  w^hen  the  town  went  up  in  flames, 
To  save  the  house  of  James  dashed  John, 
Then  turned,  and  lo !  his  own  was  gone. 

And  when  the  great  World  War  began. 
To  volunteer  John  promptly  ran ; 
And  while  he  learned  live  bombs  to  lob, 
James  stayed  at  home  and  —  sneaked  his  job. 

John  came  home  with  a  missing  limb ; 

That  didn't  seem  to  worry  him ; 

But  oh,  it  set  his  brain  awhirl 

To  find  that  James  had  —  sneaked  his  girl ! 

Time  passed.      John  tried  his  grief  to  drown ; 
To-day  James  owns  one-half  the  town; 
His  army  contracts  riches  yield ; 
And  John?     Well,  search  the  Potter's  Field. 
[192] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER-BORN 


THE  SONG  OF  THE 
SOLDIER-BORN 

Give  me  the  scorn  of  the  stars  and  a  peak 
defiant; 

Wail  of  the  pines  and  a  wind  with  the  shout 
of  a  giant; 

Night  and  a  trail  unknown  and  a  heart  re- 
liant. 


Give  me  to  live  and  love  in  the  old,  bold 
fashion ; 

A  soldier's  billet  at  night,  and  a  soldier's  ra- 
tion; 

A  heart  that  leaps  to  the  fight  with  a  soldier's 
passion. 

For  I  hold  as  a  simple  faith  there's  no  deny- 
ing: 

The  trade  of  a  soldier's  the  only  trade  worth 
plying; 

[^93] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER-BORN 

The  death  of  a  soldier's  the  only  death  worth 
dying. 


So  let  me  go  and  leave  you  safely  behind 

me; 
Go  to  the  spaces  of  hazard  where  nothing 

shall  bind  me ; 
Go  till  the  word  is  War  —  and  then  you  will 

find  me. 


Then  you  will  call  me  and  claim  me  because 
you  will  need  me ; 

Cheer  me  and  gird  me  and  into  the  battle- 
wrath  speed  me.  .  .  . 

And  when  it's  over,  spurn  me  and  no  longer 
heed  me. 


For  guile  and  a  purse  gold-greased  are  the 

arms  you  carry ; 
With  deeds  of  paper  you  fight  and  with  pens 

you  parry; 
You  call  on  the  hounds  of  the  law  your  foes 

to  harry. 

[194] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER-BORN 

You  with  your  "  Art  for  its  own  sake,"  pos- 
ing and  prinking; 

You  with  your  "  Live  and  be  merry,"  eating 
and  drinking; 

You  with  your  "  Peace  at  all  hazard,"  from 
bright  blood  shrinking. 

Fools !     I  will  tell  you  now :  though  the  red 

rain  patters, 
And  a  million  of  men  go  down,  it's  little  it 

matters.  .  .  . 
There's  the  Flag  upflung  to  the  stars,  though 

it  streams  in  tatters. 


There's  a  glory  gold  never  can  buy  to  yearn 
and  to  cry  for ; 

There's  a  hope  that's  as  old  as  the  sky  to  suf- 
fer and  sigh  for ; 

There's  a  faith  that  out-dazzles  the  sun  to 
martyr  and  die  for. 

Ah  no !  it's  my  dream  that  War  will  never  be 
ended ; 

[195] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SOLDIER-BORN 

That  men  will  perish  like  men,  and  valour  be 

splendid ; 
That  the  Flag  by  the  sword  will  be  served, 

and  honour  defended. 

That  the  tale  of  my  fights  will  never  be  an- 
cient story ; 

That  though  my  eye  may  be  dim  and  my 
beard  be  hoary, 

I'll  die  as  a  soldier  dies  on  the  Field  of 
Glory. 

So  give  me  a  strong  right  arm  for  a  zvrong's 

szvift  righting; 
Stave  of  a  song  on  my  lips  as  my  sword  is 

smiting; 
Death    in    my    hoots    may-he,    hut    -fighting, 

fighting. 


[1961 


AFTERNOON  TEA 


AFTERNOON  TEA 

As   I   was   saying  .  .  .   (Xo,   thank   you;   I 

never  take  cream  with  my  tea ; 
Cows  weren't  allowed  in  the  trenches  —  got 

out  of  the  habit,  y'see.) 
As  I  was  saying,  our  Colonel  leaped  up  like 

a  youngster  of  ten : 
"  Come   on,   lads !  "   he   shouts,   ''  and   we'll 

show  'em."     And  he  sprang  to  the  head 

of  the  men. 
Then  some  bally  thing  seemed  to  trip  him,  and 

he  fell  on  his  face  with  a  slam.  .  .  . 
Oh,  he  died  like  a  true  British  soldier,  and  the 

last  word  he  uttered  was  "  Damn !  " 
And  hang  it !     I  loved  the  old  fellow,  and 

something  just  burst  in  my  brain. 
And  I  cared  no  more  for  the  bullets  than  I 

would  for  a  shower  of  rain. 
'Twas  an  awf'ly  funny  sensation  (I  say,  this 

is  jolly  nice  tea)  ; 
I  felt  as  if  something  had  broken ;  by  gad ! 

I  was  suddenly  free. 

[197] 


AFTERNOON  TEA 


Free  for  a  glorified  moment,  beyond  regula- 
tions and  laws, 
Free  just  to  wallow  in  slaughter,  as  the  chap 

of  the  Stone  Age  was. 
So  on  I  went  joyously  nursing  a  Berserker 

rage  of  my  own, 
And  though  all  my  chaps  were  behind  me, 

feeling  most  f rightf 'ly  alone  ; 
With  the  bullets  and  shells  ding-donging,  and 

the  "  krock  "  and  the  swish  of  the  shrap ; 
And  I  found  myself  humming  "  Ben  Bolt  '* 

.  .  .   (Will  you  pass  me  the  sugar,  old 

chap? 
Two  lumps,  please).  .  .  .  What  was  I  say- 
ing?    Oh  yes,  the  jolly  old  dash; 
We  simply  ripped  through  the  barrage,  and 

on  with  a  roar  and  a  crash. 
My  fellows,  Old  Nick  couldn't  stop  'em.     On, 

on  they  went  with  a  yell. 
Till  they  tripped  on  the  Boches'  sandbags  — 

nothing  much  left  to  tell : 
A  trench  so  tattered  and  battered  that  even 

a  rat  couldn't  live ; 
Some  corpses  tangled  and  mangled,  wire  you 

could  pass  through  a  sieve. 

[198] 


AFTERNOON  TEA 


The  jolly  old  guns  had  bilked  us,  cheated  us 

out  of  our  show, 
And  my  fellows  were  simply  yearning  for  a 

red  mix-up  with  the  foe. 
So  I  shouted  to  them  to  follow,  and  on  we 

went  roaring  again, 
Battle-tuned  and  exultant,  on  in  the  leaden 

rain. 
Then  all  at  once  a  machine  gun  barks  from  a 

bit  of  a  bank, 
And  our  Major  roars  in  a  fury  :     **  We've  got 

to  take  it  on  flank." 
He  was  running  like  fire  to  lead  us,  when 

down  like  a  stone  he  comes, 
As  full  of  "  typewriter  "  bullets  as  a  pudding 

is  full  of  plums. 
So  I  took  his  job  and  we  got  'em.  ...  By 

gad !  we  got  'em  like  rats ; 
Down  in  a  deep,  shell  crater  we  fought  like 

Kilkenny  cats. 
'Twas  pleasant  just  for  a  moment  to  be  shel- 
tered and  out  of  range. 
With  someone  you  sazv  to  go  for  —  it  made 

an  agreeable  change. 


[199] 


AFTERNOON  TEA 


And  the  Bodies  that  missed  my  bullets,  my 

chaps  gave  a  bayonet  jolt, 
And  all  the  time,  I  remember,  I  whistled  and 

hummed  "  Ben  Bolt." 

Well,  that  little  job  was  over,  so  hell-for- 

leather  we  ran, 
On  to  the  second  line  trenches  —  that's  where 

the  fun  began. 
For  though   we  had  strafed  'em  like   fury, 

there  still  were  some  Boches  about, 
And  my  fellows,  teeth  set  and  eyes  glaring, 

like  terriers  routed  'em  out. 
Then  I  stumbled  on  one  of  their  dug-outs,  and 

I  shouted:     *' Is  anyone  there?" 
And  a  voice,  "  Yes,  one ;  but  I'm  wounded," 

came  faint  up  the  narrow  stair ; 
And  my  man  was  descending  before  me,  when 

sudden  a  cry !  a  shot ! 
(I  say,  this  cake  is  delicious.     You  make  it 

yourself,  do  you  not?) 
My  man  ?     Oh,  they  killed  the  poor  devil ;  for 

if  there  was  one  there  was  ten; 
So   after   I'd  bombed   'em   sufficient  I  went 

down  at  the  head  of  my  men ; 
[200] 


AFTERNOON  TEA 


And  four  tried  to  sneak  from  a  bunk-hole, 
but  we  cornered  the  rotters  all  right ; 

I'd  rather  not  go  into  details,  'twas  messy  that 
bit  of  the  fight. 

But  all  of  it's  beastly  messy;  let's  talk  of 
pleasanter  things ; 

The  skirts  that  the  girls  are  wearing,  ridicu- 
lous fluffy  things, 

So  short  that  they  show.  .  .  .  Oh,  hang  it! 
Well,  if  I  must,  I  must. 

We  cleaned  out  the  second  trench  line,  bomb 
and  bayonet  thrust ; 

And  on  we  went  to  the  third  one,  quite  cal- 
loused to  crumping  by  now ; 

And  some  of  our  fellows  who'd  passed  us 
were  making  a  deuce  of  a  row ; 

And  my  chaps  —  well,  I  just  couldn't  hold 
'em.     (It's  strange  how  it  is  with  gore; 

In  some  ways  it's  just  like  whisky:  if  you 
taste  it  you  must  have  more.) 

Their  eyes  were  like  beacons  of  battle;  by 
gad,  sir!  they  couldn't  be  calmed, 

So  I  headed  them  bang  for  the  bomb-belt,  rac- 


ing like  billy-be-damned. 

[201] 


AFTERNOON  TEA 


Oh,  it  didn't  take  long  to  arrive  there,  those 

who  arrived  at  all ; 
The    machine   guns    were   certainly    chronic, 

the  shindy  enough  to  appal. 
Oh  yes,  I  omitted  to  tell  you,  I'd  wounds  on 

the  chest  and  the  head. 
And  my  shirt  was  torn  to  a  gun-rag,  and  my 

face  hlood-gummy  and  red. 
I'm  thinking  I  looked  like  a  madman ;  I  fancy 

I  felt  one  too. 
Half  naked  and  swinging  a  rifle.  .  .  .  God ! 

what  a  glorious  ''  do." 
As  I  sit  here  in  old  Piccadilly,  sipping  my 

afternoon  tea, 
I  see  a  blind,  bullet-chipped  devil,  and  it's 

hard  to  believe  that  it's  me ; 
I   see  a   wild,   war-damaged  demon,  smash- 
ing out  left  and  right. 
And   humming   "  Ben   Bolt "   rather   loudly, 

and  hugely  enjoying  the  fight. 
And  as   for  my  men,  may  God  bless   'em ! 

I've  loved  'em  ever  since  then : 
They  fought  like  the  shining  angels;  they're 

the  pick  o'  the  land,  my  men. 


[202] 


AFTERNOON  TEA 


And  the  trench  was  a  reeking  shambles,  not 

a  Boche  to  be  seen  alive  — 
So   I   thought;   but  on   rounding  a  traverse 

I  came  on  a  covey  of  five ; 
And  four  of  'em  threw  up  their  flippers,  but 

the  fifth  chap,  a  sergeant,  was  game. 
And  though  I'd  a  bomb  and  revolver  he  came 

at  me  just  the  same. 
A  sporty  thing  that,  I  tell  you ;  I  just  couldn't 

blow  him  to  hell. 
So  I  swung  to  the  point  of  his  jaw-bone,  and 

down  like  a  ninepin  he  fell. 
And  then  when  Fd  brought  him  to  reason, 

he  wasn't  half  bad,  that  Hun ; 
He  bandaged  my  head  and  my  short-rib  as 

well  as  the  Doc  could  have  done. 
So  I  went  back  with  my  Boches,  as  gay  as  a 

two-year-old  colt. 
And    it    suddenly    struck    me    as    rummy,    I 

still  was  a-humming  ''  Ben  Bolt.'' 
And   now,   by   Jove !    how    I've   bored   you. 

You've  just  let  me  babble  away; 
Let's  talk  of  the  things  that  matter  —  your 

car  or  the  newest  play.  .  .  . 


[203] 


THE  MOURNERS 


THE  MOURNERS 

I  look  into  the  aching  womb  of  night ; 
I  look  across  the  mist  that  masks  the  dead; 
The  moon  is  tired  and  gives  but  little  light, 
The  stars  have  gone  to  bed. 

The  earth  is  sick  and  seems  to  breathe  with 

pain ; 
A  lost  wind  whimpers  in  a  mangled  tree ; 
I  do  not  see  the  foul,  corpse-cluttered  plain, 
The  dead  I  do  not  see. 

The  slain  I  ivoiild  not  see  .  .  .  and  so  I  lift 
My  eyes  from  out  the  shambles  where  they 

lie; 
When  lo!  a  million  woman-faces  drift 
Like  pale  leaves  through  the  sky. 

The  cheeks  of  some  are  channelled  deep  with 
tears ; 

[204] 


THE  MOURNERS 


But  some  are  tearless,   with  wild  eyes  that 

stare 
Into  the  shadow  of  the  coming  years 
Of  fathomless  despair. 

And  some  are  young,  and  some  are  very  old ; 
And  some  are  rich,  some  poor  beyond  belief ; 
Yet  all  are  strangely  like,  set  in  the  mould 
Of  everlasting  grief. 

They  fill  the  vast  of  Heaven,  face  on  face ; 
And  then  I  see  one  weeping  w'ith  the  rest, 
Whose    eyes    beseech    me    for    a    moment's 
space.  .  .  . 
Oh  eyes  I  love  the  best ! 

Nay,  I  but  dream.     The  sky  is  all  forlorn, 
And  there's  the  plain  of  battle  writhing  red : 
God  pity  them,  the  women-folk  who  mourn ! 
How  happy  are  the  dead! 


[305] 


VENVOl 


L'ENFOI 

My  job  is  done;  my  rhymes  are  ranked  and 

ready, 
My  word-battalions  marching  verse  by  verse; 
Here  stanza-companies  are  none  too  steady; 
There  print- platoons  are  zvcak,  but  might  be 

worse. 
And  as  in  marshalled  order  I  reznezv  them, 
My  type-brigades,  imf earful  of  the  fray, 
My  eyes   that  seek   their  faults  are  seeing 

through  them 
Imm,ortal  visions  of  an  epic  day. 

It  seems  I'm  in  a  giant  bozvling-alley ; 

The    hidden    heaz'ies    round    me    crash    and 
thud; 

A  spire  snaps  like  a  pipe-stem  in  the  valley; 

The  rising  sun  is  like  a  ball  of  blood. 

Along  the  road  the  fantassins  are  pouring. 

And  some  are  gay  as  fire,  and  some  steel- 
stern,  ... 

[206] 


L'ENVOI 


Then  hack  again  I  see  the  red  tide  pouring, 
Along  the  reeking  road  from  Hebiiterne. 


And  once  again  I  seek  Hill  Sixty-Seven, 
The  Hun  lines  grey  and  peacefid  in  my  sight ; 
When  suddenly  the  rosy  air  is  riven  — 
A  "coal-box  "  blots  the  "  boyou  "  on  my  right. 
Or  else  to  evil  Car  no  y  I  am  stealing, 
Past  sentinels  who  hail  unth  bated  breath; 
Where  not  a  cigarette  spark's  dim  revealing 
May  hint  our  mission  in  that  zone  of  death. 


I  see  across  the  shrapnel-seeded  meadoivs 

The  jagged  rubble-heap  of  La  Boiselle; 

Blood-guilty  Fricourt  brooding  in  the  shad- 
ozvs, 

And  ThiepvaVs  chateau  empty  as  a  shell. 

Dozen  Albert's  riven  streets  the  moon  is  leer- 
ing; 

The  Hanging  Virgin  takes  its  bitter  ray; 

And  all  the  road  from  Hamcl  I  am  hearing 

The  silver  rage  of  bugles  over  Bray. 
[207] 


L'ENVOI 


Once  more  within  the  sky's  deep  sapphire 

hollow 
I  sight  a  sivimming  Tanhc,  a  fairy  thing ; 
I  watch  the  angry  shell  Hame  flash  and  follozv 
In  feather  puffs  that  flick  a  tilted  zuing; 
And  then  it  fades,  with  shrapnel  mirror  s 

flashing; 
The  flashes  bloom  to  blossoms  lily  gold; 
The  batteries  are  rancoronsly  crashing, 
And  life  is  just  as  full  as  it  can  hold. 

Oh  spacious  days  of  glory  and  of  grieving! 
Oh  sounding  hours  of  lustre  and  of  loss! 
Let  lis  be  glad  ive  lived  you,  still  believing 
The  God  zAio  gave  the  cannon  gave  the  Cross. 
Let  us  be  sure  amid  these  seething  passions, 
The  lusts  of  blood  and  hate  our  souls  ab- 
hor: 
The  Power  that  Order  out  of  Chaos  fashions 
Smites   fiercest   in   the   zvrath-red   forge   of 

War.  .  .  . 
Have  faith!     Fight  on!    Amid  the  battle-hell 
Love  triumphs,  Freedom  beacons,  all  is  zvell. 


[208] 


"•*. 


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